I have an aversion to Wilderness Huts...

We don’t have many in the US. The few I’ve seen are in the Eastside Appalachian Mountains. They are sort of respectable. They have bunkbeds set apart. The sleeping units are more than a breath away from your neighbor. I could handle the space. 

While visiting New Zealand in 2015,  I was handed a harsh reality. People in some countries don’t share this Westside American’s idea of personal space. Upon seeing a hut where 24 hikers were coexisting and sleeping in a 12’x20’ space. (There were three levels of sleeping platforms.) I raised the Sambur White Flag. I surrendered and realized this won’t work for me. 

Read about it here:

https://jeffsambur.blogspot.com/2017/01/a-hut-too-far.html

On my recent Overland Track hike, I was saddened to see the sleeping arrangements were still of the Chinese Opium Den variety. (A cramped crash pad.) I slept in my tent four out of five nights. 

https://jeffsambur.blogspot.com/2019/01/when-aussies-speak-about.html

Steve, an Aussie Buddy of mine from the 1980’s knew about my phobia. While plying him for Tasmanian hiking info, he suggested the Three Capes Walk. 

The trail is relatively new. It’s three years young. It took five years to construct the huts and trail. It cost 30,000,000 Australian Dollars to make. The Three Capes Track was created for the brand-new-gear-crowd and people like me. Folks who are willing to pay more for a bit of luxury in the Great Outdoors. (Cost $355 USD/person). 

I booked a spot for one and forgot about it until I arrived in the one hotel town of Port Arthur. There’s not much else there besides the National Historic Site. 

I dawdled around until my 11:30 am ferry ride to the start. Little did I know, one of the Capes views would be from a small boat. For those who are unaware, a cape is “surrounded by water, big water, ocean water” (Quote by the Commander of the Drama and Crisis Creation). It was an hour of swaying, cold salt water spraying and me choking down a heaving. I didn’t sign up for this. 

Once landed, I donned my pack to hit Terra Firma. An hour later, I was at the Surveyor Hut. Glen the Warden came out to see me and showed me to my four bunk room. I tossed my pack on a lower bed and went exploring. 

Unbelievable! There was an outdoor gas grill, two kitchens with pots, pans and utensils, three gas stoves in each kitchen, a library, board and card games, yoga mats, comfy outdoor chairs, a deck with picnic tables, a cellphone and I Pad charging station, toilet paper in the WC, hand soap and 8” thick memory foam mattresses to sleep upon. The huts themselves were made of wood, steel and glass. A definite sturdy construction type. The second hut had a hot water shower. I was wowed at first sight. 

A note about the trail conditions: They were the best I’ve ever seen. I think staff members dust them each morning. If that doesn’t work, they must use a leaf blower with a silencer. 

I grabbed snack food, a book and a comfy deck chair. Group by group my fellow travelers arrived. (The Huts accommodate 48 hikers/day). It didn’t take long for me to realize once again, I was the solo Wandering Wondering Yank Jew among the many family units. (There were five young women, but they interacted more with each other and their cell phones than the other guests.) A few families placed invisible “Do Not Disturb” signs around themselves. It was quickly apparent they wanted quality family time. 

Good thing I brought a book and the library was well stocked.

As Yogi Berra said, “You can observe a lot by just watching.” So I did. This is what I noticed. Most hikers were new at this. They hauled in steaks, salmon, fresh veggies, bottled wine and three complete clothes ensembles. Women wore makeup and stylist silk scarves. Men-folk brought a variety of headwear. I saw real plates, Tupperware and silverware too. Cotton socks with boots were observed as well. Earbuds and Bose headphones were the rage. Texting and phone calls were a constant reminder we weren’t too far from civilization. 

Those 47  Aussies must have thought I was feral. I wore the same cotton shirt and two pairs of shorts. I ate dehydrated dinners, almonds, cashews, dried apricots, Starbucks shots, PB&J sandwiches and Clif Bars. I carried a plastic lightweight cup and spoon. That’s it. I survived. 

After awhile, I met my roommates. They were a pleasant family unit consisting of a married couple and one brother. I decided not be an interloper. I grabbed a thick mattress and slept outside and in the dining room area for the next three nights. The first outside sleep, I woke to a wallaby staring up at me. I’m pretty sure she winked. The second night outside, I was run over by an opossum. I moved indoors after that. 

By the second night, a few family units invited me to join them for dinner. The conversations were cordial and friendly. Eventually I thanked all for their kindness and let them be.

Each morning I headed off early.  I wanted the solitude. I had  hoped to see wildlife too. That didn’t work. I saw two poisonous snakes, one shy wallaby and a few flittering birds. I scored my quiet time though. 

Ahh! But the ocean side views were amazing. Even a curmudgeon like myself appreciated them. See for yourself. 

I’ll say this about the Three Cape Walk. I loved it. I would enjoy going back again with a potential First Lady. I would just politely ask her to leave her cell phone behind. For that favor, I’d carry in salmon,  fresh veggies and two plates. I’d put the bottle of wine in a plastic container too. 

Seriously, it’s well worth the Aussie or US bucks.

From Hobart, 

Cheers,

Jeff

When Aussies speak about...

 Tasmania at first they sigh. Then they weep a bit. When they regain their composure they’ll blurt, “ You must see Cradle Mountain!” 

So I did.

Let’s digress back to my time in Scottsdale, Arizona. 

While training for life in general and particularly the Cradle Mountain Track, I injured my knee. Eventually, I received a hit of cortisone to alleviate the signs and symptoms. It didn’t work. I’ll  just say, I began the 50 mile Cradle Mountain hike with a knee the size of the Hindenburg, before the fiery explosion. 

In essence, I’d be backpacking with half of my drive train out of service.

Did I mention, I’d be carrying the most burdensome pack I’ve donned in decades?  My personal metric to pounds conversion was way off. What I thought was two pounds of almonds and cashews turned out to be four. With a forecast of dodgy weather, I packed a down jacket, Windstopper, hat, gloves, fleece tops, tights and rain gear. More weight. No Bueno.

On a Tasmanian summer day, I set out from Ronny Creek with a distinguishable limp. The forecast was for biting blustery conditions with a chance of White Death. I wasn’t feeling keen about any of this. I knew right there and then, I’d be going into Sir Ernest Shackleton survival mode, minus the pack-ice sledging and the 800 mile open sea voyage. There would be no bonus miles on this track for me. This would be a hobble to the finish line.

The powers that be claimed the first day’s hike was the toughest. I concur. Leaden with a Volkswagen on my back, the ascent to Marion’s Overlook wasn’t the worse part. (Despite the spitting White Death and “rock me baby” winds.) it was the relatively flat section that came afterward. Rocks! Big ones, bowling bowl-sized ones and some in between, all at knee twisting awkward angles. It was a slow go. 

A side note about the trail conditions: Not all of the Overland Track is composed of boardwalk. All in all, the trail is in hardscrabble shape. As a fellow hiker described it. “I came on this walk thinking I’d be looking at the scenery and thinking about life. Bloody Hell! I had to concentrate on ever step!” 

When the clouds took a break, I saw Cradle Mountain. The Park’s namesake has the appearance of concave ridge line rather than an Alpine mountain. The upper reaches are composed of crumbly columns of dolerite rock. The prominence sits alone between valleys. This was a scene that repeated itself again and again along the Overland Track. Sometimes the ridge lines were lengthy, more often the mountains appeared as punctuation points in the sky. Like everything else about Australia (IE: egg laying mammals with duckbills like the platypus), it’s different. 

I was the first hiker at the Waterfall Valley hut. I hung up my wet gear, grabbed a snack 

and looked the cabin over. The information packet said the hut could accommodate 24 hikers. I saw a relatively small living area for heaps of humans. So much open space outside and so little open space inside. I grabbed my book, and took a seat at one of two tables.

My quiet time didn’t last long. BAM! The hut’s door flew open. A typhoon of surly aloof kids had made entry. They gave me a quick glance and decided to ignore me. A few minutes later the adults arrived. It was pretty obvious the parents were taking a holiday from child rearing on the Overland Track. The noise level and chaos increased. My personal space was being nuked. The coup de gras came when I noticed a barefoot youth carrying a unsheathed knife. 

To quote the Big Lebowski, “This aggression will not stand.” So I packed up my gear and left. Fortunately there was a tiny hut down valley. That night I had my own Bachelor Pad. 

The next morning, I decided to go deep to make my escape. I’d double down and skip a hut. I needed to put the feral mob behind me. A mellow five mile day was about to become a seven hour, fifteen mile ordeal. The weather wasn’t very nice either. Off I went supercharged on two hits of Starbucks instant. I stayed focused, and only took breaks to fuss. IE :Put on an extra layer, take off an extra layer. Once in awhile I ate. 

The Pelion Hut looks like a Ritz Carlton compared to Waterfall Valley. The weather was improving so I decided to set a tent in a soft meadow. I wasn’t the only one. Once established, I ventured inside to check out the opulence. I took a seat in a corner and read. This is what I heard. People speaking in hushed tones. Strangers making an effort to be  friendly , respectful, pleasant and courteous. That included the kids. I smiled to myself. I had found, “My People.” 

At dinner time the hiss of Jetboil Stoves filled the air. I looked around and quickly figured out what I had suspected. I was the sole Yank and senior citizen in the group. The rest were Aussie families and couples. It didn’t take long for Bruce, Rachelle and their brood, Loren and Ryan to chat me up. In the next few nights they sort of adopted me as an honorary Grandpa. A trip highlight for sure. 

The next few days turned fine, blue and warm. It was a Dream Time of solitary hiking through the narcotic scent of eucalyptus forests. There were many options for side hikes up and down mountains and waterfalls. I didn’t dare. I was averaging a grimace/100 steps.The photo below is me pointing at Mount Ossa, the tallest in Tasmania. That’s as close as I’d get.

I double downed once again to stay at a remote campsite on the shores of Lake St Clair. There I accepted advice from Otis Redding and “sat on the dock of the bay, wasting time.” 

On my walk back to civilization, I got an early start to take advantage of the shade. By 10 I was out.

A few hours later after scraping a week’s worth of mud, dust, sweat, blood and human nastiness off this weary body, I was sipping a pint back in Launceston. With a beer buzz and a salmon dinner in front of me, I thought about my trips to Australia. 

What makes me endure the seventeen hours of air travel abuse? 

It’s never been about the scenery, although I’ve been to heaps of pretty places here. It’s always been about the people. In the past week, two people went out of their way to give me a lift, one nice man lent me his phone to make two business calls, and a stranger took time to help me don an unruly poncho. There were heaps of other random acts of kindness.  People are just nicer here. The Aussies are optimistic, easy going with a “she’ll be right” attitude. In others words, they are everything I’m not. 

BTW. Bruce and Rachelle invited me to stop in for a home cooked meal in Brisbane. I’m sure this honorary Grandpa will have a few new yarns by then.

G’Day!

From the one pub town of Saint Mary’s. I’m sleeping there too.