Rock Magazine

Eight days at the mercy of the idyllic Tasmanian coast – home of the Roaring Forties and one of Australia's most enigmatic coastlines.

Eight days walking on the Flinders Island coast

Words and photos by Noelene Proud

I love my tent to be girt by sea, and I love coastal walks. As such, it made perfect sense for me to gravitate toward an island. Flinders Island, to be exact, a Roaring Forties’ punch bag that lies 360 kilometres southeast of Melbourne and 50 kilometres from Tasmania, and which is lashed by the worst weather Bass Strait can dish out in the foulest of its tempers.
Flinders Island is bordered by a narrow coastal reserve. I planned to walk this reserve for about eight days – enough time to take in the northern, western and southern coasts, leaving out the long beaches of the east.

The island is 64 kilometres long, about 37 kilometres wide and has a population of about 1000. It is one of those places where everyone says hello, no one locks their car, and people stop and ask if you are okay when you’re sneaking around a field trying to take a photo of a Cape Barren goose.

JIM, THE ISLAND’S TAXI DRIVER, took me to the beginning of my walk, Holloway Point. Waving goodbye, I looked around. North East River was behind me. To the east was the Tasman Sea and right in front, surging between islands, was Sisters Passage, Bass Strait’s deepest stretch of water.

Setting out in drizzly sunshine, I followed the northern coast along rocks, through poa (tussock) grass and on stretches of beaches. The storm-light added colour and drama to the lichen-orange rocks. On some beaches and headlands I weaved my way through mazes of giant granite boulders, metres high.

Near the end of the day I reached my four-litre water drop and set off to find a campsite. Before the walk I’d been concerned about finding sheltered sites. This first night I was lucky – between the aptly named Sheoak Point and Blythe Point there was a spot with a lot of trees that offered protection from the westerly weather.

The metho stove had been pulled out of retirement because gas was not available on the island (and you can’t take it on an aircraft). Clearing the sheoak needles away and using aluminium foil as a windbreak, I fired up old faithful.

After some overnight showers, I reached Blythe Point early the next morning, stopping to take in the view. A field of poa grass runs to the coast, meeting rocks blazing with lichen, the ocean stretching to the horizon. In this beautiful place, with legs fresh, I knew there was nowhere else in the world I would rather be.

Rounding Blythe Point I got my first view of 318-metre Mt Killiecrankie, seven kilometres to the south. Reaching a beach, I watched many sooty oyster catchers strutting along the waterline. Flinders Island is a seabird lover’s dream, with storm petrels and short-tailed shearwaters at every Caspian tern.

From Blythe Point to The Dock, I yo-yo-ed between beach, rocks and scrub looking for the easiest path. The Dock is a picturesque area of glowing orange rocky coves, clear water and offshore reefs.
Continuing south on a track used by rockclimbers, I came to a very lived-in, though temporarily deserted, climbers’ camp. Cooking gear and food lay everywhere, dominated by an interesting combination of UHT milk and tinned pineapple. I eyed their gas canisters with a little envy. Back on the coast I heard distant voices and, looking up, spotted the likely camp inhabitants, roped together and impossibly high on the granite face.

The high tide forced me up and over an almost vertical headland, giving a fantastic view down over Twin Coves. The western twin was filled with rainforest-green water, decorated with an offshore limestone arch. The eastern twin was encircled by walls of smooth rock, forming a swimming pool. It looked like a tropical paradise.

The rocky headlands gave way to beaches near the small settlement of Killiekrankie. After an eight-hour walking day, it was a relief to put the tent up here. 
An early start the next morning saw me past the craypots on Killiekrankie beach and rockhopping by 7am, sending the pacific gulls flying. I could see footpads where other walkers had scrambled up and over headlands when high tide made the rocks impassable. Making easy work of the terrain was a bird of prey, possibly a white-bellied sea eagle, hovering above the limestone headland of Low Point.
More rocks, stretches of poa and sandy headlands brought me to Cape Frankland, the western-most point of the island. The flame-coloured rocks of the cape stretch away as far as one can see. Rounding the cape, the wind increased, buffeting me for the next few kilometres to Twelve Hour Point, where the scenery demanded I stop for a break.
I nearly jumped out of my skin when someone came up behind and said hello. The couple from Melbourne were the first walkers I had seen. Out for the day, they were interested in the weight of my pack and, after picking it up, declared it ‘light’. After carrying it for hours on sideways sloping rock, ‘light’ is not the first word I would have chosen.
I would happily have stopped the knee-hammering rockhopping for the day, but I needed to reach the water drop near West End beach. By the time I’d recovered my liquid stash, I was too tired to scout far for a campsite on the headland. After nine-and-a-half hours’ walking, I was happy enough to settle for a not very flat, not very big and not very sheltered spot.

THE WIND BLASTED THROUGHOUT THE NIGHT and my tent was lashed by heavy rain. The relatively warm weather that daybreak delivered made an early start easy, however, and I set out on the long West End Beach walk at sunrise.

I’d now spent several days walking on rocks that relentlessly sloped towards the sea, and the little toe on my right foot was screaming at me in pain, having taken much of the weight. The flat beach was welcome relief for my sore pinkie, but I found it hard to believe that I was the same bushwalker who had emphatically chosen the rocky west coast over the long beaches of the east coast.
Two kilometres of beach walking brought me to rocky Bun Beetons Point, where treading across the rock pools at low tide was a delight. Later, approaching Duck Island, the beaches were piled high with wall-to-wall seaweed. It was like walking on marshmallow. Eventually the open sand of Marshall Beach beckoned like a mirage.
Coming into the tiny settlement of Emita, the views from the cliffs and headlands were stunning. Again I was tiring near the end of the day and it took an hour to cover the last two kilometres into Allports Beach. After nine hours on the go, I made camp near a rainwater tank.

Early morning low tide made the start of the next day’s walking easy and I soon came to the muttonbird rookery at Port Davies. Numerous potoroos crossed my path. I skirted around a low hanging tree branch, not spotting the huge tiger snake it was hiding until after I past it.
Walking south on footpads I came to Settlement Point and Settlement Beach, the site of Australia’s first Indigenous land claim. The uplifting scenery of rocky coves and beautiful beaches is in contrast to the sad history of the area.

Still pondering the past, I walked on to Half Mile Rock. A distinctive, grey Cape Barren goose flew overhead. A wombat basked on rocks in the sun, just a few metres from the beach.
I was utterly exhausted and my toe was so sore by the time I reached the campground north of Whitemark after nearly nine hours walking, that I decided to make the next day a rest day. Lacking the energy to cook, I took the top off a tin of spaghetti from my stored food, ate it cold from the can, and crawled under the sleeping bag. It was barely six in the evening.

THERE IS NOTHING LIKE a good night’s sleep to recharge the walking batteries. Day off? No way! Marvelling at the restorative powers of cold tinned spaghetti, I set off with a new load of food and fuel for the southern coast. A 17-kilometre beach walk brought me to Trousers Point, from where I followed the ‘Great Short Walks of Tasmania’ signs through a forest full of flitting green rosellas around to the bush camping area.
But, fuelled by spaghetti I still had plenty of beans left, so I changed my plan to camp here. I filled up with over three litres of water from the rainwater tank and continued south for another five kilometres, making camp at Buffalos Beach. Paperbark trees started to appear in the wooded areas, and I had good views to conical Mount Chappell Island, home of the world’s largest tiger snakes.
A ferocious wind greeted me the next morning. I was carefully following my position on the map so I could find the creeks I needed for drinking water, although the conditions made consulting the map a challenge.
After passing around Sarah Blanche Point, Big River Cove finally came into view. It had taken three difficult hours to cover the six kilometres to the cove, having been slowed by the extremely strong winds.
On the western side of Pigs Head Point I bent into the gale, fighting to move forward. Once around the point, the wind completely dropped and I climbed down on to a tiny, tranquil beach. From here there were magnificent views of what can only be described as mountains rising out of the sea: Cape Barren Island, ten kilometres to the south. The spires of the island’s jagged, grey peaks were shrouded in black cloud. It was raining on Cape Barren Island while I was sitting under blue skies on an idyllic beach.

PARADISE SOON GAVE WAY to a tough struggle. East of Pigs Head Point I could only inch my way east on the toughest terrain of the walk, around steeply sloping boulders ending in the sea, interrupted by deep rocky gullies that demanded a lot of clambering, all backed by impenetrable forest. It took three hours to cover three kilometres to Joes Creek.
As advised, I headed upstream, past the tidal influence. Taking a mouthful of the green, stagnant water I spat it out. It was as salty as sea water but tasted a lot worse. There had not been enough rain to flush out the creeks and I regretted not picking up water at the larger Big River.

From Joe’s Creek I had the luxury of walking on a track, an immense relief to my sore toe and now blistered instep. Although the track only strayed a short way inland, a change in the bushland could be seen, with grasstrees and banksias appearing in the forest.
The track soon crosses Reddins Creek, where I walked upstream. A taste test revealed the water to be a tad brackish but passable. Collecting two litres and tossing in an extra purifying tablet for good measure, I continued east.

My last camp was at Watering Beach. Taking a swig of the now treated Reddins Creek water, I immediately spat it out. It was very brackish and foul. How bad had Joes Creek water been that in comparison this had seemed drinkable? I could have sought out a creek near the beach but decided to eke out the remaining Trousers Point rainwater. It was crackers for tea and no coffee with breakfast. The horror…
The walk out began along a fire track. I followed the path into Strzelecki National Park, passing stands of tall whitegums. It didn’t take long to walk the 14 kilometres, finishing at a farm gate. Walkers can cross the farm as long as gates are closed and livestock are not disturbed. Hoping this did not include using a mobile phone in public, I called Jim for a lift back to Whitemark and a hot date with a long overdue morning coffee.