The Hobart Chronicles XXXV: Run Through The Jungle

Whoa, thought it was a nightmare,
Lo, it's all so true,
They told me, "Don't go walkin' slow
'Cause Devil's on the loose."
- Creedence Clearwater Revival, Run Through The Jungle, 1970

One of the great joys of Tasnarnia is the great outdoors. Great.

There's been a bit of tramping about in it lately, not least this weekend just gone when for once I managed not to go to work on either Saturday or Sunday, and instead made a determined effort to go outside and play, just like our Mums always encouraged us.

Some organised friends found out about some marvellous little cabins near Lake Dobson in the Mt Field National Park, available for short stays through National Parks. Dating back to 1932, the cottages are quaint but equiped with cracking wood fires, a must so near to the snow line. It's just rustic enough to give you the impression you've had a wild weekend.

One shouldn't be lulled into a false sense of security by small comforts, however. We got out on Saturday morning and began what looked like a simple walk; well, the walk was simple, but the weather wasn't. The wind screamed and the clouds closed in to form mist around us; the cold became too much for the junior member of the team sitting in the backpack, so we abandoned the walk along the chain of tarns.

Instead we began another walk down a little lower, along a more sheltered route, and to begin with it was quite pleasant. But somehow, what started out as a well-marked side track via Platypus Tarn somehow disappeared shortly after we left the tarn. Hmmm, Tasnarnian bush, on a cold day in an alpine area where there were snow patches on the ground. What's the best thing to do? Retrace our steps? There were blokes in our group, so of course there was no retracing any steps, ha ha you must be kidding. We pushed on. There were also women in the group, so maps were consulted. But since the people consulting the maps are not, if you believe Alan Pease, actually able to read them (and there was still no going back), we soon found that we weren't where we thought we were. Or indeed anywhere we could identify. There we were, in the great outdoors without a clue. Great.

It's funny how all one's nice ideas are thrown aside at the first sign of adversity. All those leaflets we read about treading lightly on the delicate landscape? Pah! If there was a break in the wall of foliage there, we tramped there and bugger tiptoeing around the pretty orange moss. How quickly the thin veneers of civilisation are stripped away.

Finally, we all capitulated to the inevitable: time to do The Right Things. That is, we got out the map again, and the compass made its first appearance; we observed the sun, the landscape, sighted north and read the topography lines. Then we pooled our collective brainpower, and made a decision. Some 500-600m in that direction we'd find the main track.

Now the bush bashing got really serious. Even if we'd had a machete, there wasn't room to swing it. We walked, stumbled and flailed about 500m, and got to our goal, the top of the ridge. BC, who was in the lead, turned in the middle of a thicket and said, well, this late in the day and with no sign of a way out, we'd better fire up the portable stove and create some shelter. Caro and I looked at each other. Oh boy, this was bad shit.

Then Ricky laughed; he couldn't stand the looks on our faces any longer. The path's just there, he said. And there it was. Bastards.

But you know, I really enjoyed it anyway. It was funny.... later.