New on Sidetracked:

By Wing and Foot

Finding the Rhythms of the Wilderness in Tasmania
Words & Photography by James Bowden

The waves weren’t really putting on much of a show that first evening as we set up camp. But out of the corner of my eye I could see the marine biologist of our trio, pulling his wetsuit out of his overly stuffed pack anyway. He’d seen the subtle signs; a low swell, a slight wind, a boulder-strewn shoreline, the perfect habitat for the southern rock lobster, or locally known as the Tassie crayfish. Within minutes, he was out there; mere moments later, a neoprene-gloved hand thrusted out of the ocean, tightly gripping the thrashing red crustacean. A quick size check and it was bagged and on the rocks. A bit of spit on the mask and he was back under for more, rubber fins flashing a whale’s salute as he dove. Back at camp, the big beautiful crays were sent to sleep in the fast-flowing creek, cooked in an inadequately small pan and cut right down the middle. Our bounty was gorged upon, whilst the scientist explained the best techniques for ‘persuading’ the spiny red beasts from their deep dark holes. With the cheap smuggled rum warming my face and my belly groaning under the weight of excessive seafood, I began to wonder of the need of the neatly weighed-out and bagged rations we had packed. Needless to say, we slept deeply and soundly that first night, oblivious to the quolls and possums picking there way through the remains of our feast outside the tents.

It was midsummer in my adopted home city and the festival season was in full swing. The sun was beating down upon the beaches and campsites and they, in turn, were swelling with surfers and tourists, eager to make the most of the brief warmth the sun brought to these southern latitudes. Two of my closest friends and I were itching for an escape, an adventure, somewhere far out and new to us all, a beach with no footprints, no 4×4’s and some empty waves. Pondering over the maps it was hard to ignore the vast swathe of land in the south-west of the state of Tasmania. No roads, no towns, no people, no surfers. It’s a true untouched wilderness and we wanted some of that!

A neoprene-gloved hand thrusted out of the ocean, tightly gripping the thrashing red crustacean. A quick size check and it was bagged and on the rocks.

Rogue trees would pull, snag and punch holes in the surfboards we carried underarm and the echoes of swear words would send the bush birds startled into the sky.

Tasmania’s South West National Park is accessed in one of three ways: by foot, by boat or by light aircraft. It was the latter that got us to the lonely white gravel airstrip in the heart of the wilderness, but from there, it was on foot. The small Cessna skipped along the runway and up into the overcast sky; shortly after, an eerie silence prevailed. We were – for the most part – alone now, a rag tag trio of surfers, scattered belongings, meagre rations, fishing rods, surfboards and just over a week to burn before (weather permitting) meeting the little Cessna back at this windswept airstrip in the middle of it all.

We lifted our overweight packs and headed off. The drizzle enveloped us as we hiked south in the direction of our prize, a scattering of remote rocky coves, a day or so hike apart and open to swell, or so we hoped. For none of us, or anyone we knew, had walked out to this far corner of the state. So, for us at least, this was unexplored territory with a chance to score some waves to call our own. The track followed old animal tracks and boggy creeks. Early morning had turned to late afternoon by the time our motley procession rolled out onto the sand for our first glimpse of the ocean, our first bay and that first taste of the seafood bounty that was to await us.

The next few days would follow a similar routine. Early in the morning, we would break our weary legs on a steep and thickly forested climb out of our beachside camp, and keep that momentum going over the cliffs and back down into the creeks and valleys that led to the next cove. Rogue trees would pull, snag and punch holes in the surfboards we carried underarm and the echoes of swear words would send the bush birds startled into the sky. By the early afternoon we would usually be approaching the next bay and the pace would quicken as the anticipation built. The swell was sometimes small, sometimes big, but there was always a stunning scene to greet us as we spilled out onto the white sands. Afternoons would be spent suiting up and surfing whatever the ocean presented us. This would be followed by ‘the hunt’, for now we had the taste for the sweet white flesh of our prey, and we were all slowly learning the skills needed to capture them.

As the days and bays went by and by, we walked west and approached our terminus, a small cove just before the rugged coast makes a dramatic turn and makes its journey north. The approach into this last tight little bay at the mouth of a winding valley was from high up atop the weathered quartzite hills, and we could see the potential as we dropped down into the thickly forested valley sides. It was sure to be a little paradise, our little paradise! And it was, with a small wave grinding and shaping up against the eastern cliffs, a snaking tannin-stained river exiting at the western end and the warm summer sunshine blazing down overhead. It was remote, wild and silent, well, apart from our ‘whoops’ of excitement as we threw our packs down from our sweaty shoulders and dug out the damp wetsuits hidden within. For two long days we surfed the waning swell alone, we explored the surrounding rocky coves and islands, we solved all the problems in the world over a fire in the evenings and we feasted on the finest Tasmanian seafood all the while.

For a few days we were reconnecting with the rhythms of the wilderness, and letting the wind and tide set our agendas at this far-out beach, in a far-out bay, on a far-out island at the bottom of the world.


First published in Sidetracked Volume One

Words and photography by James Bowden
Website: latitudinaltales.co.uk
Instagram: @jamesbowdown

For a few days we were reconnecting with the rhythms of the wilderness, and letting the wind and tide set our agendas at this far-out beach, in a far-out bay, on a far-out island at the bottom of the world.

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