As a bush-walker
from across the ditch, it has taken the Five Passes Easter trip with
the OTMC for me to appreciate the philosophy behind the seemingly
innocent NZ term "tramping'. I didn't need to be a nuclear physicist
to figure out that tramping is actually a cunningly disguised sadistic
numbers game, although I found a working knowledge of exponential
decay and chaos theory was a distinct advantage. I am now in the possession
of the hard earned knowledge that the overall game plan for a tramp
is to begin with as many people as you can possibly squeeze into three
vehicles (would you believe 15), taking care to fill all interstitial
spaces with as much unnecessary gear, gourmet food and Easter eggs
as possible, set them loose in the Southern Alps, and see how many
of the original starters can be eliminated by fair means or foul before
they make their designated rendezvous with a Dart jet boat, five days
and x kilometres later!
Some of the measures
taken to achieve tramper minimisation were quite remarkable, and those
of us more used to the aim of conservation of numbers were often caught
by surprise. The experience of this notorious group was clearly demonstrated
by the ability to off-load four of its speedier members in the first
half hour and dispense with the Leader and Co. by day two. Although
daily fluctuations of ±10% in numbers were common, there was a fortunate
regression toward the mean achieved by 1400 hours on day five. Even
the unsuspecting foreigners quickly learned that survival meant weathering
wind and rain on Sugarloaf Pass, closing eyes and mind to waterfalls
whilst crossing raging torrents along the Rockburn, swinging from
tree to tree down from Park Pass, stealing fuel to cook dinner, dragging
exhausted bodies out of armpit deep potholes hidden by 2m high grass
on the Olivine Ledge, rotating tents at midnight, skiing down steep
snowgrass bluffs off Fohn Saddle, avoiding cracked shins on the lethal
mossy rocks and roots hidden under ferns on the Beansburn track, and
controlling the adrenaline rush on the wild jet-boat ride down the
Dart.
Despite all attempts,
self inflicted or otherwise, to wipe myself out, nothing could detract
from the enjoyment of the country itself. The breathtaking panoramas
from the likes of Fiery Col, the sunrise from Sunset Peak, the diamonds
dripping from Tolkein forests, the golden mirror tarns above Cow Saddle,
the serenity and serendipity of the campsite at Fohn Lakes, the luxurious
beds of sphagnum moss in the Beansburn, the braided beauty of the
Dart, let alone the camaraderie of my fellow desperados.
Along with a pile
of photos and unforgettable memories, I will take home with me the
concept of rock bivvies, bluffed out, "trip" doctor, and "true" left
and right (although it has been kindly pointed out that lack of water
in Australian creeks may cause some difficulty there). In exchange,
I leave behind the useful concept of a 'whip", the definition of a
"real" camera, and an open invitation to OTMC members and friends
to come tramping in my stamping ground of the Victorian Alps.
Claire Garrett,
Bayside Bushwalking Club, Melbourne; and the Federation of Bushwalking
Clubs of Victoria.
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