Trekking in Tassie

This boy really knows how to do Christmas presents. Sat in a sticky living room in Bali, I unwrapped an envelope – excited with the knowledge that the size of the present is indirectly correlated with the value. I was proven right as I pulled out the piece of paper with pictures of the most beautiful Airbnb. Written beneath was James’ gift to me: a weekend in Launceston with the promise of climbing a long-awaited hill, Cradle Mountain. As a man who is not a fan of hills, this was both a surprise and a delight – something to look forward to at the end of January.

January was the longest month. Bombarded by memes with the similar sentiment, I knew I wasn’t alone in thinking that, but perhaps alone in Australia as the summer days spilling with sunshine stretched before us. There is not quite the same deliciousness to summer when you are back at work, strapped to your desk, knowing the hordes of bikini-clad tourists still stretched out on Bondi Beach. The final weekend of the month rolled around and I frantically packed my bag, keen to get away from endless to-do lists and back into the calmness of the hills.

We raced to the airport late Friday afternoon, work phones still buzzing. Security went smoothly and I was reminded how easy it is to travel with only hand luggage, cursing my usual inability to pack lightly. We made our way to an overcrowded bar, determined for that first airport drink to fast-track us into holiday mode. The flight was quick, Launceston airport was small, and we were quickly outside in the setting sun wandering amongst hire cars. James found our one with a grin – an Audi Q3 – very happy that he hadn’t paid for an additional driver. A quick Coles shop and then we arrived at the most gorgeous Airbnb, a rustic retreat twenty-minutes from Launceston. A row of stables greeted us, miniature cottages decked out with woollen rugs, dusty tomes, and wooden beams. A real country hideaway. We quickly unpacked, James made sandwiches for tomorrow, and then we collapsed into bed, the curtain slightly ajar to gaze at the stars.

I woke groggy-eyed to a criminally early alarm for a Saturday morning. James brought me coffee and then I was finally teased out of bed by the smell of porridge cooking downstairs. We spooned it down quickly, followed by more coffee, before packing our rucksacks and piling into the car. James still grinning at all the fancy controls, we pulled out of the driveway and raced along fields glowing in the early morning light. We drove through the countryside, tall mountains framing the pastoral scene, mist clinging to the grass and creating an ethereal shimmer. It was beautiful. I just couldn’t stop smiling.

We arrived at the sleek visitor centre two hours later, crisp air greeting us as we stepped out of the car. After some wary looks from the staff who are clearly familiar with tourists bounding recklessly into the hills – of course, we’re definitely not the type – we queued with fellow early-risers for the first shuttle. The whole process ran very smoothly: a shuttle every ten minutes that drops you along the start points of various routes for various wants and walking abilities. We were the final stop: Dove Lake. We climbed out of the minibus, gazing out at a deep blue lake that sparkled in the sunshine, looking deceptively inviting under a cloudless sky.

A final bag check, loo break, water bottles filled and then we were off! Sweating already, we started the steady climb up to the first checkpoint: Marion’s Lookout. As the steps climbed up, so did the temperature, the cool morning air having promptly disappeared with the shuttle. We trudged past Lake Lilla and Wombat Pool, both glistening a crystal blue. The path continued upwards, becoming rocky as the hill became steeper, until we came across a chain to help pull us up the steepest sections. Not a good sign. Panting and fuelled by jelly snakes, we eventually arrived at Marion’s Lookout, making good time but legs shaking already. As we rounded the corner, the ground flattened out, revealing the stark shape of Cradle Mountain. Its peak rose straight and tall, its sight a warning to our burning lungs, and the jagged outline made us both double check the sturdiness of our boots. However, the sky was still spotless and the expansive views were glorious. Each step felt liberating.

We reached Kitchen Hut, ate a quick snack, and then started the steep upward climb. We glanced towards the summit, feeling optimistic at the fact that we could at least see it. Shortly, the path hit huge rocks and I giggled as I jumped from rock to rock and hauled myself upward. James was not giggling at this point, but still followed behind. Soon, the rocks became steeper and the drop more dangerous. I heaved my body up each rock, fully leaning into the “whole body” workout. Arms aching, I started getting nervous that we had to return the same way. James glared at me, his mind clearly bouncing between trying to survive unscathed and also questioning how on earth this city boy had ended up here. As the rocks became more precarious, James called out that he wasn’t sure he could continue. It was too dangerous and the path non-existent. We’d encountered two false summits and both weren’t sure how long this would go on for. I hid my own nerves and kept encouraging him, while also understanding if he wanted to call it. I had to admit, even I felt a bit out of my depth. Legs shaking – from exhaustion or nerves, I’m not sure – I started the final ascent, eager to show James how close we were.

We finally made it to the top, climbing under rocks to avoid swarms of March flies and the blasting wind. We crawled along to the summit and gazed out at the view. The mountains rolled around us endlessly, an ocean of brown, green and grey bathed in the midday sun. It was so clear and we could see for miles, feeling like Tasmania had just laid itself out below us. I stared out, munching my well-earned ham and cheese sandwich, grinning from ear to ear.

The flies shooed us on as we started the descent, still terrified and exhausted. Finally James had the upper hand, his longer legs and arms able to gently lower him between rocks. I was far less graceful and emerged from each rock with a new set of bruises. I slowly dropped myself down the rocks, a good balance of petrified and thrilled. We made it to a slightly more stable path and powered on, knackered and conscious of our dinner reservation. When we finally made it to Dove Lake, we were so relieved and leapt on the bus back to the visitor centre.

We guzzled down water, snacked on an ice lolly, and then folded ourselves into the car for the trip home. A quick stop at the Bottle-O, some ciders in the fading sun, and then a quick turnaround for dinner. Sated and content, we climbed into bed with tired legs, full stomachs, and fuzzy heads. The perfect day.