Lost Worlds (40 page)

We were lucky.

“She’ll be right,” said Phil, with just a touch of relief in his voice. “No shear.”

He was right. We escaped the death-defying, stomach-in-mouth plummet over the Arthurs. In fact, as we approached the first ranges, the clouds dissipated into ragged strands of mist and we peered down through scratched windows at a tortured jumble of Precambrian quartzite crags and peaks and precipices dotted with small lakes, and cirques set in mossy bowls and bound by shattered ridges of white rock.

Phil eased lower toward the cirques, reeling off names that resembled a mythical pantheon: Mount Hesperus, Mount Sirius, Mount Pegasus, Mount Orion, the Crags of Andromeda, Procyon Peak, Mount Capricorn, Mount Taurus, Capella Crags, Lucifer Ridge—and then the little lakes: Pluto, Neptune, Uranus, Jupiter, Mars, Venus, Trion, and Mercury.

As we skimmed across the black sinister surface of Lake Cygnus, clusters of enormous tropical pandani rose like hairy alien creatures above the moss and heather ground cover.

He pointed to a faint line that serpentined through the low brush, over the peaks, and between the scoured white arêtes and pinnacles.

“That’s the Western Arthurs Trail.” His voice was tinged with respect.

“What’s that?”

“That’s about the hardest trail in all Australia. A real bastard when the weather’s bad, and,” he added, “its always bad in the Arthurs.”

“A long one?”

“No—not in miles. Only about twenty or so. But it’ll take a fit walker five days to do it. Some of the best scenery anywhere—if you ever get to see it.”

“D’you get many walkers?”

“A lot of ’em talk about it and quite a few start it—but getting to the end is another thing altogether. That’s real tough country down there.”

Despite the clearing of the clouds and patches of blue sky, it did indeed look like tough country. Pockets of perpetual ice and snow hid in shadowy crevasses on the northern slopes where the sun never reached. There were no trees—just that thick covering of ground-hugging, wind-flattened bush out of which rose those strange giant pandani. An empty, desolate world and one I was glad to be exploring from the relative safety of our warm cockpit.

Gradually the land fell away from the high white ridges and eased out into broader sweeps of valleys, scarps, swamps, and misty ranges.

“That’s the Ironbounds.” Phil pointed way to the south at a range of near-black mountains, sharply profiled and sinister. “You’ll be crossing those.”

“I will?”

“Yeah. The coast track takes you right over the top.”

“I thought it followed the beaches.”

“Well, it does some of the way, but the Ironbounds come right down to the ocean. You’ve got to cross over. There’s no way ’round.”

Silence again. I could sense him grinning as he brought in yet another novice who’d underestimated the scale, terrors, and challenges of tiny Tasmania.

“You’ll be okay,” he said consolingly. “Just don’t push it too hard. And watch the weather. It can turn fast. If it gets real bad, just make camp and stay put.”

“No one lives down there, right?” I asked.

“’Cept for the Willsons at Melaleuca. They’re running a small tin-mining operation near the landing strip. After that you’re on your own. Likely as not you won’t see anyone for six days. Maybe longer. Depends on the weather.”

Back in that northwest Australian bar with the gushy-eyed girl, a six-day hike through Tasmania didn’t sound like such a big deal. In my stubbie stupor I imagined a leisurely stroll along talcum-textured sands, bathing in sheltered coves, sharing travel tales with fellow walkers, and arriving back in Hobart after a few days for a celebratory shindig or two at the local watering holes.

But now that I was approaching the starting point I suddenly felt very vulnerable and lonely. The landscape was a vast and unrelenting scene of boggy moors, treeless hills, and black ice-flecked peaks. Not a sign of life anywhere. Not even sheep. No tracks. Nothing except this endless rust-and khaki-colored land.

“Well, at least I’ll share a beer with the Willsons before I set off,” I said in a voice full of forced cheer.

“Doubt it.”

“Oh—why?”

“They don’t really take to people. They’ve been mining down there by themselves—husband and wife—for twenty-odd years. Took over Deny King’s operation. Small-time stuff, really, but they get good ore in the peat bogs. Enough to make a living.”

“Who is Deny King?”

“Was. Was Deny King. He died last year. Great guy. All the walkers loved him. Bit of a recluse, but a great storyteller when you got him going. Artist too.”

“So—I guess I won’t be seeing anyone.”

Phil thought a bit. “Maybe Bob’s around. He runs a camp in Bathurst Harbor. Outback stuff, and all that. Tents in the forest. Swimming in secret coves. Y’know the thing. Good fella, Bob.”

“Is he there now?”

“Not rightly sure. Maybe. If he is he’ll tell you about Deny. May be able to get you over to the Willsons too. He knows ’em.”

We were starting the descent. As we sank slowly toward the boggy terrain below, patterned with curlicues of streams, the mountains rose higher on all sides. Far ahead I could see the ocean edged by white lines of surf. It vanished as the ground came closer.

“See the strip?”

I looked across the seemingly unending swath of dun-colored moor and saw nothing.

Phil pointed—“See the wind sock? Bit of a breeze down there today. Roarin’ forties runnin’ again.”

I looked harder and finally saw a faint strip of white and green far ahead. The wind sock on a pole at the far end of the strip was stretched taut in a horizontal position, a position I associated with hurricane-force winds.

“May be a bit tricky,” Phil mumbled, as much to himself as me as he lined up the plane for landing.

You could feel the force of the wind fifty feet above the strip. It was blowing us off course and into the bog. Phil made corrections so that we actually seemed to be heading away from the strip, directly into the wind. Maybe he planned to land sideways? The engine speed dropped and we were tossed and buffeted by the gale.

“Hang on,” he mumbled again and I did just that, ramming myself into my seat and holding on to anything that looked secure and stable.

We hit the landing strip with a metal-crunching crash, way off center and only a few feet from the bog. The wind seemed to delight in pushing us closer. As soon as the wheels hit, Phil turned sharply away from the mud and it seemed for a second or two that we’d be cartwheeled by the force of the blast.

“Sorry ’bout that.” Phil was smiling. “Had to get her down fast!” I nodded and tried to smile too. My knuckles were death-white and still gripping the seat like vices.

“Welcome to Melaleuca,” said Phil. “One of the loneliest spots on the planet!”

“Thanks.” I grunted.

“Let’s get you unloaded. I’ve got to get out of here before that wind really gets up.”

“You mean it’s going to get worse?”

“Oh, yeah—no doubt about it. Look at those clouds.”

I looked but didn’t know what I was supposed to be seeing. They were certainly moving fast—like ghostly dragsters—across the peaks.

“You’re going back to Hobart?”

“Right y’are, fast as a jackrabbit,” said Phil.

Suddenly Hobart seemed a most seductive place in spite of its nighttime wolf packs and depressing pubs and fat-laden junk-food snack bars. I wished I was going back with him.

“Okay—let’s get moving,” he said.

He really did plan to get out fast. The gale smacked me like a prizefighter punch as I crawled out of the cockpit, down the wing, and onto the strip. My parka was almost ripped from my hand as I struggled to get into it and find the zipper.

Phil helped me carry my backpack to a hut at the side of the strip.

“You sure you can take off in this wind?” I asked.

“No worries, mate. But I’ve got to go now.”

He pointed to a gale-shaped huddle of stumpy trees at the edge of the runway. “Now, listen—follow that path and you’ll get to a hiker’s hut just down by those trees”—the first real trees I’d seen in the last fifty miles of flying. “If Bob’s around you’ll see him there. If not just get the fire started and a cook-up going. M’be you can leave tomorrow if the weather’s good. There may be some….”

Then he turned and laughed. A figure appeared over a small scrub-covered rise above the strip, riding an odd bicycle.

“That’s Barbara. Mrs. Willson.” He waved.

Mrs. Willson tried to wave back, but her bike was being buffeted by the gale and she decided to hang on instead. She arrived breathless and red-faced, wrapped in an enormous yellow raincoat.

“Thought I’d miss you Phil,” she gasped as she propped her unusual bike (a British-made Moulton special with tiny wheels) against the hut. “Got some letters for you to post.” Her accent wasn’t Australian at all. Even in those first few words I caught the Lancashire twang of England.

“Barbara, meet Dave. He’s off to do the South Coast Track.”

She looked at me for the first time through guarded eyes. Her skin was bronzed and wrinkled. She appeared to be in her early fifties and as tough as the elements in which she lived.

“You’re from Lancashire!” I said, hoping to establish an immediate rapport.

“Well—what of it?” she snapped.

“I’m from Yorkshire. Just over the Pennines.”

She paused and her demeanor seemed to relax a little.

“Well—if you’ve been up in the Pennines you’ll feel at home here.”

I nodded and smiled. “You’re right. Same colors. Same bogs—same wind!”

She smiled back—a friendlier smile this time—and then turned to Phil.

“So—give my love to Beatrice. Tell her I’ll be up there next month.”

“Okay, Barbara. See you in town. I’m off before that bloody wind really starts blowing.”

We said our farewells to Phil and watched him scamper back to the plane as the gale tore through the scrub and bent the marsh grass in the bogs.

Barbara had mounted her Moulton and was ready to move off too.

“Listen—if you’re around…” she seemed to hesitate, not sure if she wanted to say what she was going to say, “well, we’re just a mile or so up the track there.”

And then she was gone, pedaling furiously against the gale and vanishing over a low ridge. I think she’d offered me the closest thing to an invitation she could muster and I liked her for that.

Phil’s plane rose ungracefully through the churning air and quickly disappeared into the skimming clouds. After a minute there was no sound except that of the gale tearing through the matted ground cover. I was alone now. I had this whole vast panoply of mountains and moors all to myself. This was the territory I had come to experience and, God willing, to conquer. It was an exciting and slightly terrifying prospect. But at least I could luxuriate for my first night in the hiker’s hut. After that it would just be me and whatever was out there. The girl’s words came back to me: “You feel like you’re the first person ever to have walked in these places.” Well—we’ll see. I wasn’t quite ready for that sensation yet.

I found the hut huddled low to the ground against a wood of King Billy pines. The trees grew close together and their interlocking branches presented an impenetrable barrier. No sunlight penetrated the gloomy recesses. Something resembling a path meandered off into the mossy darkness for a few yards and then gave up as if beaten back by the aggressive tangle of twigs and twisted limbs. Against the great open swaths of scenery all around, the woods offered a reluctant refuge for weary, wind-blasted hikers—but little else in the way of bucolic comforts.

I retraced my steps out of the tangle, the branches tearing at my backpack and snagging my hair. A malicious little wood—not at all welcoming. But at least in this damp hollow I was out of the gale, and for a while at least I’d accept the sinister silence here as respite.

The door to the hut squeaked open. It was a simple Quonset affair, dusty and gloomy. A large fireplace, resembling some ancient altar, separated the kitchen area from the main space, simply furnished with four double bunk beds, a long table, and a scatter of lopsided chairs and benches. The windows had not been cleaned for a long time, so what little light there was had a yellow cobwebby tinge to it.

It was cold. Really cold. Much colder than outside. The dusty plank floor, pockmarked with scourings from hikers’ hobnailed boots, had streaks of white near the joints. I couldn’t tell if they were ice or mildew. Probably both. The place was damp too.

A simple wooden plaque nailed to the wall declared that the hut was Deny King’s gift to the wilderness wanderers he admired and loved and was built in memory of his father, Charles, who had first arrived here in 1933 to mine for tin in the peat bogs south of the airstrip. Nearby on the table was a visitors’ book for hikers’ remarks. It was open at a new page on which was a single inscription by a Jay Fellows from Canada, who had spent a night here alone eight days previously and left a suitably sonorous quotation in a spidery hand:

It was the “melancholy” of the wilderness that seemed to dominate my spirit at the moment as I shivered and turned the damp pages, looking for more lighthearted, more human ventings of emotion.

They came in various guises: