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Christmas in the great outdoors – unheard of where I’m from in England. Aside from the requisite, country stroll, it’s mainly a horizontal affair; top and tailing with an equally over-fed, semi-inebriated sibling as Bill Nighly’s rendition of Love Is All Around Me opens the yearly screening of Love Actually and thoughts turn to the next feast – a carefully ranked hierarchy of chocolate bars from one of the many Cadbury selection boxes.
So, for my first Australian Christmas we decided to break tradition, embrace the outdoors and not only camp but hike, gear in tow, for 5 days and 4 nights around Wilsons Promontory National Park. “Bonding”, responded a friend.
Situated at the southern most point of mainland Australia and with an area of over 500km2, Wilsons Prom offers numerous hiking possibilities, with walking tracks passing through dense bush to white beaches, each complete with their own marvels and challenges. This in mind, our first task was to decide on a route which, depending on the days enthusiasm, varied from one extreme to the other – all day hikes stretching the length and breadth of The Prom (and back), fuelled on trail mix, to leisurely nights at the Proms Lighthouse, our packs containing the ingredients for a Christmas dinner with all the trimmings. Eventually, we settled on a 62km route that, without spending 2016 in physiotherapy, took advantage of the Prom’s diverse landscape. Christmas dinner: a thoughtfully chosen ‘gourmet’, dehydrated sachet meal for two, homemade mince pies and as much wine as our hiking-friendly thermos would fit. We were set.
Packed and eager to get out of Melbourne early, we began the 150km drive south of the city to Tidal River Visitor Centre. Pre-hike admin proved a breeze and within an hour of arriving we’d eaten lunch, thrown on our 15kg packs and began our walk, even if a little unsure as to exactly what path we were supposed to be on. A yellow belly black snake sighting 10 minutes in however, assured us that this was the hiking route to Oberon Bay, not the path to Tidal River’s open-aired cinema.
We walked, up and down and up and down, the dirt path gradually fading into sand as we caught our first glimpse of beach. From here, an ever-inclining path guided us through an archway of spiralled trees as we climbed amongst the headlands and into an ominous, grey cloud. A light, somewhat pleasing drizzle later, we were presented with views of a deserted Norman beach to our right and Oberon Mountain to our left. 5km later, we met our first group of fellow hikers, decked out in gaiters and walking poles – the second becoming a more prominent feature in my mind over the following days. I once read that ‘walking on a beach is good for your soul and your muscles’. With a 15kg pack on, beach walks are a serious workout. ‘Little Oberon Bay Camp, 20m’ – relief. Deliriously, we tromped through thick scrub to our chosen site, shortly mimicked by a bounding wallaby barely out of reaching distance.
Waking up that first morning away from home always feels slightly surreal, especially when your shoulders feel like they’re balancing an anvil. Muesli, coffee and a series of shoulder rolls later, the balance was restored. Re-packed and strapped, we walked a modest 2 hours along a bluestone, loose-gravel road to Halfway Hut – a comparatively luxury site centred on the camp’s namesake stone hut, complete with picnic tables.
Preparing meals in the dirt was a thing of the past. We dug in to a dirt-free lunch, complementing ourselves for packing sundried tomatoes (the life in our otherwise bland Mountain Bread wraps), when out waddled an echidna, obviously intrigued by our audible enjoyment. Frozen, we watched in wonder until he left, no-doubt feeling a little self-conscious. Returning to the days plan, we packed ourselves a day-bag – a between-two, modest drawstring number, made solely for essentials, or rather wasabi peas, and left for a 23km roundtrip hike to claim our fame of reaching the southernmost point of mainland Australia.
With a noticeable spring in our pack-less step, off we skipped, narrowly missing a run-in (step-on) with a brown snake as we rocketed up an otherwise arduous Martin’s Hill. The view at the top, for lack of a better word, was breathtaking: ghostly, skeletal braches of tea tree, defoliated in the 2009 bush fire, poked up in clusters through the canopy like antlers. Onwards we spied signage giving the option of continuing via ‘walking route’ or ‘vehicle route’. It soon became apparent which of the two was more popular, however our ‘walking route’, booby-trapped with branches and snags, evoked a real sense of adventure.
From Roaring Meg campsite we knew we had another hour of walking. Two hours later – how can you possibly walk further that the southernmost point. Unsure of our errors, but nevertheless satisfied, we set up on a rock that surely starred in The Lion King. A few photo shoots later, we clocked our selfies being witnessed by a tiger snake. Unkeen to share our wasabi peas three ways, we hastily retreated and retraced our steps back to Halfway Hut, a welcomed sight in our now well-worn shoes.
Halfway, indeed. That morning the sun was blazing as we made our way up an exposed vehicle track to Telegraph Junction. Threatened by a steep incline ahead, morale was low. Like a mirage, signage appeared instructing us to take a hasty right, away from the dreaded incline – phew! Off we veered, over swamps and dunes until reaching a lake divided by mangroves and governed by two black swans. From here Waterloo Bay was in sight.
Having now officially traversed the width of the park, we arrived at Little Waterloo Bay Camp just before lunch however, for once, something else topped the to-do-list. We dropped our bags and headed (body wash in hand) straight for the ocean – crystal clear and bordered by white, oddly squeaky sand with not another soul in sight. We returned to camp to set-up and eat before our final exertion of the day – carrying our sleeping mats up onto the rocks. It was a cushy afternoon that extended into the evening as we cracked open our Christmas wine and sat under a full moon like a pair of Cheshire cats.
Sun and wine called for water, which at Little Waterloo was served from the river with a distinctive tannin-dyed, orange hue. Although, pop in an aquatab and an orange flavoured hydrolyte and the colour will at least make sense. With 4 bottles of the liquid strapped to our backs we were off on what would be the hardest and longest hike so far. Fuelled on the semi-precious gems of sugary papaya, mango and banana that decorated our muesli each morning, we made good pace up the steep, boulder-strewn coastline that starts the climb from Waterloo Bay up towards Kersops Peak. Entering into a dense forest of ferns, where every fallen trunk became a welcomed rest stool, we passed other hikers, bopping up and down as they sped downhill. The mutual question of ‘how much further to…?’ today included a cheery ‘Merry Christmas!’ that bought smiles to sweaty faces.
558m above sea level, we had reached Kersops Peak. Offering prime seating selection on one of the many granite slabs, surrounded by panoramic views, we set up for a well-earned lunch. Sadly, the flies inhabiting the peak felt the same making our rest short lived before descending to Refuge Cove. Aptly named, out came a deck of cards, coffee kit, miso soups and candy canes (it was Christmas day after all), all to be enjoyed between dips in the bay.
Acting out our new leisurely role so well, we could have been mistaken for forgetting the further 2.5 hours to Sealers Cove, our destination for the night. Somewhat begrudgingly we packed up. Heading back into dense forest, we passed a fence layered with wooden signs carved by the owners of the many vessels moored at Refuge over the years, each embellished with keepsakes from the sea. We stood reading through the names one by one before starting the track to Sealers Cove – a route high up along the coast that alternates between gruelling climbs and rewarding scenery.
That night we tucked into mince pies and sipped the last of our wine over a game of cards. The temperature had dropped and threatened a stormy night. No doubt, we woke to the sound of raindrops – a great excuse for breakfast in bed at least. Some slap dash packing later, we made our way down to Sealers Creek crossing, my backpack wrapped in the mudded rain cover of our tent.
Socks and shoes off, we waded into the freezing, knee-deep water, giggling as I dropped my socks and struggled to avoid a complete dunking.
Back on dry land we were met by a convenient boardwalk – a few metres too late I thought, as I squelched along in my wet socks. We passed through Blackfish Creek that possessed a mirror-like symmetry before a steady climb up Telegraph Track – newly restored after heavy flooding in 2011 made the route off limits for 2 years. With the mantra of ‘shower’ and ‘Prom Burger’ dominating conversation, we completed the final 10km in just under 3 hours (with an additional 3km in the back of a minibus – our knight in shining armour).
Pulling up at Tidal River we decided that hygiene overruled hunger, for now. Seeking out the most underused shower block, we definitely had our 5 days worth, before thoughts of ‘The Prom Burger’ re-emerged. To clarify ‘The Prom Burger’ could rival most in Melbourne, cooked by a lady that’s clearly no stranger to a grill. Satisfied, we were ready for the 3 hour drive home, until we spied a poster for Tidal River’s open-aired cinema, tonight’s screening: the new Star Wars!
Story by Rachel Johnson
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