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Tranquil Waters
The calm waters of Lake BurrinjuckWith a cold front blowing in from Antarctica having scuppered my plans for one final week-long trek in the mountains of Victoria, I had been forced to acknowledge that autumn had well and truly arrived in this part of Australia and it was time to start heading north. "No worries", I thought to myself, "there are plenty of adventures to keep me going over the border in New South Wales". That was until I finally got around to checking the NSW National Parks website, at which point the full extent of the state's recent spate of natural disasters became all too apparent. Blue Mountains? Most trails still closed from the bushfires of the summer BEFORE last. Yuraygir NP? Sections of the coastal trail and numerous campgrounds closed from a combination of fire and flood damage. Myall Lakes NP? Almost the entire park had been closed since being inundated in the recent flooding. Kosciuszko NP? Well, if it was too cold to get back up into the Victorian Alps, then it would certainly be too cold to get up into the Snowy Mountains!
And so after a simple process of elimination I eventually settled on the Hume & Hovell Track: a
Standing Tall
Tall tree beside Black Range Road 425km 'walking trail' (though roughly half of it actually follows quiet country roads) from Yass to Albury through the so-called Snowy Valleys. And though the middle hundred kilometres or so between Tumut and Tumbarumba was still closed from the Black Summer bushfires, this left around 150km (about a week's worth of walking) at either end that was still open. And given that the track kept mostly to the valley bottoms (or so I thought!) the temperatures ought to be mild enough to allow me to spend a week at a time camping out in the wilderness without succumbing to frostbite! It all seemed so simple...
Hopping off the bus from Canberra in Yass (having been content to skip the first 4km from the official trailhead at Cooma Cottage, since the track followed the same road as the bus route!) I had the small matter of 28km of road walking to tackle to reach the first overnight campsite. This didn't leave much margin for error considering that by the time I set off it was 11:30am - only six hours before sundown! But if the sustained section of road walking wasn't particularly inspiring, as the Black Range Road threaded it's
Meeting the Locals
Pastoral scenery on day one way through rolling farmlands, it at least allowed me to keep up an excellent pace throughout the afternoon; and with the temperature barely reaching twenty degrees I had little need to stop and rest along the way. In fact the only time I did stop for longer than five minutes had nothing to do with tiredness, as a sudden movement off to my right alerted me to an Eastern Grey Kangaroo who had sadly gotten it's foot caught in a fence not far from the road.
Dropping my pack and rushing over to try to help it, the kangaroo (which stood only about a metre high) was clearly alarmed by my presence and started to produce a type of hissing noise - the first type of vocalisation I have ever heard from such an animal - to leave me in no uncertain terms that it didn't trust me! But try as I might, it soon became clear that the fence wire was wound so tightly around the kangaroo's foot that there was no way I would be able to free it. Thankfully I had mobile phone reception and was able to get through to WIRES (the Wildlife Rescue service
Almost time to bust the head torch out...
Still following Black Range Road in the dwindling daylight in New South Wales) to place a priority call for assistance, and given the energy with which it had tried to free itself when I first approached I felt confident that the kangaroo had not been there for long - so I could only hope that someone better equipped (and more experienced) than myself would be coming out soon to free the poor animal and hopefully treat it's injured foot.
Knowing there was nothing more I could do and that my presence would only stress the kangaroo out further, I could only hoist my backpack and continue on down the road; but despite knowing it was the right thing to do I found it absolutely heart-breaking to leave that poor animal behind. Fortunately I received a phone call only about an hour later from a WIRES employee who lived locally to check the exact location of the kangaroo, so I could only assume that he would soon be on his way out to help. Still, the image of that adorable animal's face would remain ingrained in my mind for hours to come, and it was with a heavy heart and tears in my eyes that I set off down
Perfect place for a rest day
The beautiful blue waters of Lake Burrinjuck the road towards my campsite, which I finally reached just after dusk.
The next day brought another 17km of road walking before I finally encountered a section of proper walking trail that led for the final five kilometres around the shores of the artificial Lake Burrinjuck to the Burrinjuck Waters Holiday Park, where I would spend the next two nights while awaiting my boat crossing of the lake on the Monday morning. This would prove to be a godsend, as both my feet and my mind were able to relax and recuperate from those gruelling first two days of trudging along compacted roads. And though the nights would be long and chilly - with the sun disappearing behind the mountains by 4pm each afternoon - the sight of those beautiful blue waters sprawling out between the surrounding mountains was enough to cure any ills... while the burgers from the attached kiosk provided an irresistible treat amidst a week of rehydrated, lightweight camping foods!
Rising long before dawn to pack up in time for the 7:30am boat crossing on Monday morning, I was introduced to a fellow hiker who had come through from Yass a day behind me. Strangely
Shades of Grey
Hopping aboard the MV Getaway for the crossing of Lake Burrinjuck though, as I sat down to enjoy a belated breakfast an hour or so down the track from our disembarkation point on the other side of Lake Burrinjuck, I overheard my newfound companion asking someone over the phone to come and get him, as he was too sore to continue the trek! Survival of the fittest, I suppose...
With the sun once again shining down through the crisp autumn air, the golden light that it showered upon the surrounding hillsides cast a magical spell over me as I made my way towards the tiny settlement of Wee Jasper, where I chose the longer (but more scenic) alternative route to the nearby Fitzpatrick Trackhead through a rugged, wooded section of the Wee Jasper Nature Reserve. Emerging back down in the valley of the Goodradigbee River, I then left the track to enjoy a scenic lunch beside the shores of the river at the Billy's Grace Reserve campsite... and found the peace and tranquility so irresistible that I ended up calling a premature halt to my day's walk so that I could while away the rest of the afternoon at that beautiful riverside setting! And what's more, nature - conveniently cropped
Standing Tall, Glowing Bright
Beautiful scenery by the banks of the Goodradigbee River by a chainsaw - had conspired to provide me with the perfect dinner table, in the form of a two-metre-diameter tree trunk that had been felled about a metre above the ground, on which I found myself perched for most of the afternoon, content to simply watch the rippling waters of the Goodradigbee River roll on by.
The next three days would see me leaving civilization behind, starting with the sustained climb up and over Mount Wee Jasper (1121m). Unfortunately I would also be saying farewell to the mild valley-floor temperatures, and despite having worked up a hell of a sweat on the climb up to the summit I soon found myself having to don warm clothes for the rather shorter descent down the other side. And with the only rain for the week having been forecast for that night, I shouldn't have been surprised when the lovely, shady campsite at Log Bridge Creek turned out to have a shelter with a missing roof! Thankfully I was already safely tucked up inside my tent by the time the rain started, and by morning the showers had cleared to reveal another cool but clear day. The following night I wouldn't
Scattered Light
Welcoming the first light of day at Log Bridge Creek campsite be so lucky. After weaving my way from one thickly-forested valley to another, the trail reached the rushing waters of Micalong Creek, which it would follow for the next dozen kilometres. As the sides of the valley closed in, the gradient of the river steepened until it formed a roiling mass of rapids studded with a couple of impressive waterfalls... and according to a makeshift logbook placed alongside the track, I was the first person to have seen any of it in over a week.
But my decision to take an extra day to reach Tumut had the unintended consequence of leaving me camped at almost a thousand metres above sea level on what would be the coldest night of the year so far. Once again hopping into my sleeping bag as early as possible - whilst wearing all of my warmest clothes, beanie and gloves included - I could only hope my tent would provide the necessary insulation to keep me warm enough throughout the night. But whereas the previous nights had only gotten down to about 2 or 3 degrees ABOVE freezing point, this time the thermometer on my backpack would read MINUS two degrees when I
Wild Waters
The untamed upper stretches of Micalong Creek rose at 7am in the morning. And if there was any doubt that I had just spent my first ever night camping in subzero temperatures (in fact it would be the first time I had experienced such low temperatures at all since spending Christmas in Germany seven years ago) the ice in my water bottle and frost on the inside of my tent would provide irrefutable evidence!
This also led to a phenomenon that I had never experienced before, as when the sun did eventually appear it rapidly thawed out the moisture trapped in the treetops, causing it to 'rain' despite the total absence of any clouds! This had me scurrying to shift my tent underneath the campsite's shelter - which this time thankfully DID have an intact roof - in an attempt to dry out my tent amidst the unexpected downpour, but I ought to have appreciated the shower while it lasted... within twenty minutes the sun had disappeared behind a blanket of clouds, and it would stubbornly refuse to re-emerge for the rest of the day! With 25km to cover that day, I had little choice but to leave all of my warm clothes on - where
Rain on a cloudless day
Barrois campsite in subzero temperatures most days had been spent in shorts and t-shirt until now - and hit the trail regardless. Not since my cold, waterlogged, and quite frankly miserable experience on the Overland Track in the Tasmanian Highlands five months earlier had I needed to wear my thermals on a day's hike, but with the temperature still hovering around seven degrees at midday (it wouldn't reach double figures until 2pm, by which time I had made my way down from the high plateau of the Micalong Swamp towards the relative 'warmth' of the Goobarragandra River Valley) I had no choice but to press on regardless in an attempt to keep warm.
Unfortunately no sooner had I reached the valley floor than the trail led straight back up the hillside opposite, leaving me to question the masochistic tendencies of the people who had designed and built this section of trail at the end of an already long day. I might even have uttered the odd expletive (or ten) to the resident wild pigs that scattered upon my passing, as I cursed this cold day from hell that had sucked not only the warmth from my cheeks but the joy from my soul. And
Doing my best to keep warm
Wearing all of my clothes at once to start the day from Barrois campsite then just when I was at the end of my tether, I emerged from the bush once more amidst the immaculately maintained grounds of the Thomas Boyd Trackhead campsite on the banks of the serene Goobarragandra River... and slowly but surely the strain of the day subsided, leaving me with a feeling of begrudging acceptance that while the day had been less than enjoyable, it no longer looked anywhere near as bad now that it was in the rearviewmirror. And though there were no showers at the campground, there was hot water - allowing me to enjoy the peculiar (but no less enjoyable) sensation of immersing my almost-numb fingers in a fold-up saucepan full of piping hot water! But if I thought that was glorious, better was yet to come when the only other folks staying at the campground - three eccentric but friendly fly fishermen - invited me to warm myself beside their campfire that evening, thus proving that even the crappiest day can have a happy ending!
Rising early the next day, I wished my fisher folk companions well and hit the trail for the final 20km through to the Snowy Mountains Highway. After leaving the valley
River Crossing
Sturdy suspension bridge over the Goobarragandra River at Thomas Boyd Trackhead of the Goobarragandra River behind, I turned and headed up a side valley along a farm road - and was soon caught up to by the farmer driving his miniature farm ute, with two eager cattle dogs in the back. After chatting to the friendly old farmer for a while he kindly offered to give me a ride to the edge of his property about a kilometre further on... though given that his esky took pride of place in the passenger seat this would require hauling myself up into the tray at the back and then trying not to fall out as we bounced our way down the rough gravel track, with the two dogs wondering what the hell this new human with his large backpack was doing huddling in the back of THEIR ute!
By the time we reached the edge of the farmer's property I had almost lost all feeling in my legs as a result of squatting down (under the weight of a full backpack no less) while trying to keep myself from toppling straight out the back every time we bounced over another large rock, whilst simultaneously trying to pat both dogs at once without
Every man and his dogs...
The farmer (and his dogs) who gave me a lift... and then took off with my phone in the back! unfairly favouring either one! I also couldn't help thinking that I would have actually covered the ground more quickly if I had been on foot - and without having to try to figure out what on earth the farmer was saying over the roar of the little ute's engine! But it had been a memorable ride and no harm had been done... or so I thought until I went to check the time after finally extracting myself from the back of the ute and farewelling the farmer and his dogs, only to realize that my phone had slipped out of my pocket and was now making it's way back to the farmer's house in the company of his dogs - who presumably would soon be amusing themselves by taking random selfies and posting them to my Facebook account!
Racing back up the same road I had just painfully bounced my way down whilst frantically waving my hands above my head and shouting to the farmer and his dogs, I managed to make myself heard over the sound of the ute's engine and breathed a sigh of relief as the brake lights came on and the ute came to a
The Final Stretch
Hitting the Snowy Mountains Highway 12km out of Tumut halt... it had occurred to me by now that both my drivers license and bankcard were sitting snugly inside my phone case, and that if the farmer had have made it around the corner without hearing me I might never have retrieved them! The next time I was offered a ride in the back of a ute from a friendly farmer, I figured I'd politely decline and continue on foot...
After enjoying a relaxing lunch break in a lovely shaded glen on the neighbouring farmer's property, I tackled the gruelling climb up through the thick brush of the neighbouring national park, with the farmer's parting words playing over and over in my head: "Watch out for those Southern Brown Snakes" he'd warned me, "they love the rocky country up where you're headed, and if one of those things bites you, you've got about 15 minutes - so you better start singing!" I had no idea what good singing would do, but made a mental note to try to steer well clear of any snakes, regardless of colour or geographical origin. Sure enough, twenty minutes later I turned a corner to be confronted by a slender, shiny reptilian resident sprawled
Almost there
Finally entering Tumut two hours later, after a 30km day out across the trail (though to be honest it looked closer to black than brown) which then proceeded to ignore my polite requests for it to vacate the scene. Eventually my gentle persuasion had the desired effect, and as the clearly unimpressed snake exited stage left I hurried on my way - by now armed with not one but two 'snake defence' sticks.
Thankfully the track soon broke out into the open, leaving me with a final hour of gentle hill walking through undulating pastureland as I passed over Foxes Gap and made my way down into the Tumut Valley, to eventually emerge beside the Snowy Mountains Highway about a dozen kilometres from Tumut. "I'll just stick my thumb out and hitch a ride into town" I told myself optimistically. Clearly I had learned nothing from the previous week... and two hours later I would finally come to accept that the only ride I would be offered that day was from the quirky farmer and his loyal dogs back over the other side of the mountains, as I finally made my way into town after pounding out every one of those twelve god-forsaken, bitumen-encrusted kilometres just as the last
Worth a return trip
Back at Tumut River Brewing Co the day after my walk light of day leached from the sky. But maybe I had learned something after all, for no sooner had I erected my tent at the lovely riverside holiday park on the edge of town, than I found myself stumbling through the dark towards the bright lights of the Tumut River Brewing Company bar, where the atmosphere was warm, the beers were tasty, and the only thing better than the kransky & pineapple pizza that I had for dinner was the nutella & marshmallow pizza that I followed with for dessert. You see, even the crappiest days - or most nerve-wracking ones - really can have a happy ending.
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