Solo Man
To what lengths will a man go to live another day? Things go awry when experienced bushwalker Dave Matters takes on the Victorian High Country solo.
Walking alone can deliver a heightened experience and a feeling of self-empowerment. Sometimes, however, you get more than you bargained for… An experienced bushwalker unwittingly dices with death on a one-man mission in the Victorian High Country
Words and photos by Dave Matters
Even with the best of intensions, a plan can come unstuck. My plan was to follow the seemingly sedate Shaw Creek downstream from its headwaters, where it is just a gentle stream flowing lazily through a beautiful alpine meadow. I had attempted this twice previously, and had walked away on both occasions thinking the creek could be an untapped kayaking gem just waiting for a first descent. In reality it proved a wolf in sheep’s clothing.
Not far downstream the creek starts to pick up its pace, dropping 200 vertical metres in the space of three kilometres. With different friends I’d descended as far as a large 20-metre waterfall. This had caused one epic retreat, ending in us scaling 700 vertical metres with fully laden kayaks in tow. The question of what was beyond that waterfall on Shaw Creek had become a topic of much debate. It was time, I thought, to put an end to the speculation.
Driving towards Dingo Hill Track the car was enveloped in a thick blanket of fog, reducing the trees to silhouettes. I was on my own, with my focus turned inward. On top of Mt Tamboritha the road made its way between historic cattle yards and fleshy snow gums. In no time at all I was driving over Shaw Creek. Kicking the trip off with a celebratory drink of its clear waters, I was surprised at how much water was flowing between its banks. For the duration of the trip I was planning to follow the creek, so I opted to only bring two one-litre water bottles.
Sticking to the creek proved slow going due to the depth and speed of the water, steep rocky terrain and the dense alpine scrub. I decided to walk along a nearby spur instead, which allowed me to travel much faster, but before long it began to veer away from my intended path and I was soon checking my map to work out how to get back down to the mysterious creek below.
Descending into the valley, the rumble of turbulent waters eventually came up to meet my ears. At the bottom a white mass wove its way in a convoluted braid between many boulders. It was at this point that I knew no-one was ever getting a kayak past the big falls. I then turned my attention upstream and was pleased to see I was now directly at the base of the falls. In the crook of the valley I felt dwarfed by the looming hills.
I had hoped to put some distance behind me on this first day, but this was proving to be challenging. I doggedly scrambled my way along the banks. When I wasn’t boulder hopping, the surrounding bush was ripping at my skin. It was slow going and I began to wonder how many days I’d actually need to finish the walk. I was covering around 500 metres an hour and this creek alone was at least 30 kilometres long. Doubts began to creep in…something needed to change.
The creek continued to drop, producing another beautiful waterfall in its bid to lose gradient. Rounding a steep corner studded with wild flowers, the water finally disappeared into a bottomless void. This totally threw me. I knew the creek would run through some steep country, but this was outrageous. I was no longer willing to directly follow the watercourse, especially on my own. With resignation I yelled into the looming hills, vocalising exactly what I thought of them. It was bitterly disappointing to end my journey so abruptly.
A RETREAT AND A NEW PLAN was needed, so I studied my maps. I’d descended 400 hundred vertical metres below the McMillans Track, which was up high on the ridge. This was the only possible route I could follow towards the Macalister River – where I planned to float on my inflatable raft back to the town of Licola.
So, without much forward planning, I re-stocked my meagre water supply and began the trudge back up hill in a southerly direction. While this option didn’t appeal to me in the slightest, the reality was I had to get out of this valley somehow and the down option wasn’t working. Over the next hour, I made my way higher.
The walking was super strenuous and, by the time I stumbled on to the track, I had emptied one of my bottles. Somewhat blinded by false hope, and encouraged by the extremely easy walking on the old jeep track, I looked at my map and estimated a 15-kilometre day across the ridge, placing me directly above the Macalister Valley and the water it promised. With these loose goals set I headed off, my trip could still be successful.
The walking was fast and enjoyable. Catching glimpses of the valley far below, I could only imagine how hard it would have been, scrambling along down there. After six kilometres the ridge became rocky and eventually the jeep track was replaced with a very overgrown walking track. This was shown on the map and came as no surprise. At this point I probably should have assessed my situation and retreated back towards the car but the call of the journey blinded me to logic.
The walk continued west towards the Macalister and I was enjoying the mostly off-track nature of this section. Along the way I walked under a very impressive rock shelter and wondered who used to sleep there.
The markers for the track eventually became more erratic. This annoyed me as I had lazily grown dependent on them to show the way, which left me off-guard when they evaporated. Eventually, I walked into a massive clearing and decided to make camp. It had been a long day and I looked forward to sleep.
In the tent that night I studied my maps again. I was convinced that the following day I would be able to walk west along the ridgetop, across the aptly named Long Spur, eventually heading southeast across Long Hill to my final highpoint at the Crinoline, before dropping down to the Macalister River. My main worry was that I now had no water and was only halfway. Still, I was sure that the walking wouldn’t get much harder, so decided I would continue west.
THE TRACK DISAPPEARED FOR GOOD ALMOST IMMEDIATELY the next morning. This was no major issue as I could use the ridge as a guide, yet the track did give a feeling of security and would have made my walk more direct. At one stage I dropped off the ridge while I was in the saddle between two knolls. I told myself this was perfectly okay and that I needed to get back on to high ground. My compass pointed west, I had to trust that it was pointing me in the right direction.
Although I was becoming increasingly dehydrated, the rocky exposed landscape was amazing. Sometimes I could see for miles in all directions. There was an occasion where a band of rain swept along the valley, but not a drop came my way. Heading south I felt my progress was good, yet my body was starting to fade. I had only been able to swallow four gelatinous fruit bars as they managed to activate my taste buds enough to form some sort of saliva. My mouth rejected everything else.
I was so thirsty that it was becoming serious. I was constantly dogged by the fact that if I dropped off the western slope I would be making direct progress towards life-giving water, yet the terrain was too steep, with cliffs, drop offs and dense bush making the direct line of attack potentially slower and more danger strewn than the ridgetop.
As I looked out across the valley, I spied a large peak that capped the ridge. It was stunning, with a top like a Chinese hat. This was the Crinoline and it was a major landmark to tick off on my way back down to the Macalister. If I hadn’t been so incredibly thirsty it would have been an amazing place to spend the night.
It didn’t take long to walk the saddle to the Crinoline, but when I got there I was faced with a choice of route. My mind was starting to struggle with these decisions, the Crinoline became an annoying obstacle and, to my surprise, I found myself looking for a direct route over it. It was while searching for this that I discovered moisture in little clumps of moss. I began to literally kiss the Crinoline, sucking the precious moisture out of the moss. It wasn’t very satisfying as not all the moss was damp and I would get equal mouthfuls of dry moss and water. I started to squeeze the moss between my fingers, letting the muddy water trickle into my mouth. This went on for about ten minutes as I made my way around the summit, sucking moss like some crazed pilgrim. Eventually, I found a weakness in the cliff face that offered a way to get on top.
I’d been walking for about six hours now, it was hot and I was completely spent. I kept looking in to my food bag, frustrated that I couldn’t eat. ‘This is serious,’ I thought, propping myself against a tree. Before I knew what I was doing, I had my water bottle out and I was filling it with urine. It was a tannin-coloured liquid not unlike the beautiful fresh creek water of Southwest Tasmania. I kept trying to convince myself I wouldn’t have to tell anyone and that it wouldn’t be so bad…
WRONG, WRONG, WRONG…VERY WRONG. It was horrid. I was so thirsty that I couldn’t wait for it to cool down, I had the bottle to my mouth and I was gulping it down in an instant. Before I could process what I had just done I took another big swig. My mouth was coated in what could be best described as rotten chicken stock with a trace of juice, the sharp smell filling my nose. Disgusted with myself I poured the rest out. I was not going to do that again. I needed to get down and quickly; I sure as hell didn’t want to die with drinking piss having been my last experience.
The ground was steep and unstable and I had to concentrate as I slid from tree to tree. At some point the spur ran into another that funnelled me into a gully and I was too tired now to fight the terrain. Looking down the gully, however, I couldn’t believe my eyes. Piss drinking would not be my final act. Every ten metres tiny puddles cradled by the rocks shimmered back at me. Throwing off my pack I threw myself flat on my belly and drank three puddles dry. I didn’t care how muddy they were, they tasted amazing. I spent the next hour drinking and eating, rolling from one puddle to the next.
Walking down this little creek bed proved to be fairly easy. It was too rocky for plants to grow and I was still drinking puddles every hundred metres or so. When finally I reached the Macalister River, I quickly stripped off and lowered my battered body into the soothing waters.
After some time my mind gradually turned to the next element of my trip. With plenty of daylight left, I started to waterproof my gear for the river trip down to Licola. Inflating the toy raft by mouth left my head spinning. With a recommended maximum load of 95 kilograms and the combined weight of myself and the pack being 90 kilograms, I was cutting it fine.
With the pack in front and my legs draped either side I pushed off into the current. The river was very shallow with lots of sharp rocks to be negotiated. Initially my plan was to float on the flats and walk the rapids. I thought this would reduce the likelihood of a puncture. Instead, I ended up rafting the rapids and walking the lead up to them. The channels in the rapids were deep and the raft slid over the smooth, rounded rocks. Bouncing through the white water I’d clench my butt cheeks and arch my back in an attempt to avoid a constant battering from the rocks below. After rafting for a couple of hours, lying in water up to my waist, the sun dropped behind the cliffs and I was starting to get cold so I made camp on the bank of the river.
Over tea I decided the raft was too slow and could potentially puncture at any moment. Looking at the map I realised it wasn’t far to the confluence with the Barkley River. Once there, if I walked two kilometres back up the Barkley, I could get to the Glencairn Road and hitch a ride. Pleased with my Plan B, I went to sleep to the spooky howling of dogs in the distance.
The next day I drifted past orange cliffs and towering river bends. When I finally got to the confluence I discovered a Plan C. What at first looked like a four-wheel-drive track turned out to be a trail left by a grader that had pushed a path all the way from the Wellington River to the Barkley, flattening willow trees along the way. Confusingly, though, there was no mention of a track on my maps. In the end I reasoned that, as long as it followed the river, I wouldn’t have to revisit the previous day’s experience.
The walk was an easy ten-kilometre amble through open forest, although the road crossed the river 11 times – enough to keep things interesting. As I walked the last few kilometres I had a chance to relax and reflect on the journey. Although I’d failed in my planned mission, I still felt a great sense of achievement that I’d been able to draw on my knowledge, skills and something from deep within to get myself through what would have to be one of the more unusual outdoor experiences that I’d ever had. The creek had defeated me, but at least I lived to tell the tale.
