- Written by Mat Young. Outdoor Professional, Tasmania Guide, and an Ambassador for K2 Base Camp. -
Dry in the Wet Wild: Testing the Outdoor Research Foray in Southwest Tasmania
Rain jackets are one of the most important pieces of kit that we take into the outdoors. A good rain jacket can enable you to confidently stride out into the elements on those days when you’d otherwise stay at home. If you’re outdoors regularly, a good rain jacket is a must.
Over the years, I’ve used expensive Gore-Tex and Pertex jackets and been satisfied with their performance, but… Recent developments in environmental research have shown that standard DWR treatments are releasing ‘forever chemicals’ into the environment.
So what are your options for high-performance gear that won’t leave a trail of chemicals in your wake?
Fortunately, a few brands have begun to innovate with new DWR treatments, Outdoor Research being among them: Leading the charge with their best-selling and highly effective Foray Jacket.
Recently, I took the Foray Jacket for a long walk through one of Australia’s great wilderness areas, the Southwest of Tasmania.
If you’d like to jump ahead, here’s my hike itinerary:
The southwest has captured my imagination ever since I moved down here. The scale of the wilderness and its untouched beauty are something truly special in today’s world. For perspective, if you were to quarter Tasmania, the bottom left-hand quadrant is almost entirely wilderness. There are a couple of roads and dams, and that’s about it. It’s a place ruled by the elements, chiefly, Water: The constant rain (about 2000mm a year) shapes the landscape, flowing into numerous tannin-stained rivers and out into spectacular bays where gigantic Southern Ocean swells crash foaming, onto the rocky coast.
The low-lying areas are colonised by endless boggy button grass plains, through which the rivers carve a meandering path. Bordering and punctuating these plains are craggy mountain ranges that have seen little, if any, human traffic. Most of the trees are collected in dense thickets, deep in sheltered gullies or along the banks of the many rivers. As you plunge into these thickets, the wildlife – which is unaccustomed to humans – will literally sit and stare at you, curious about this humpbacked creature stumbling through their world.
It’s into this environment that I wandered, alone, on a traverse of the Port Davey Track (PDT) and South Coast Track (SCT). At roughly 154ks, it was further than I’d ever walked before, but after a season of guiding, running and climbing I was more than ready. I’d taken my preparation seriously; studied the maps, organised a food drop, chatted to friends who have done it and compiled my own detailed plan based on what I thought was feasible, though still challenging, for me.
It’s into this environment that I wandered, alone, on a traverse of the Port Davey Track (PDT) and South Coast Track (SCT). At roughly 154ks, it was further than I’d ever walked before, but after a season of guiding, running and climbing I was more than ready. I’d taken my preparation seriously; studied the maps, organised a food drop, chatted to friends who have done it and compiled my own detailed plan based on what I thought was feasible, though still challenging, for me.
Day 1 – Huon Campground to Crossing River (~19km)
So off I went, one drizzly May morning. My mate Milan drove me to the trailhead, and at the other end, I would be relying on the generosity of strangers to give this stinky hiker a lift back to Hobart.
As plans go, I’d based most of my strategy around the weather: The PDT requires hikers to row a boat across Bathurst Harbour at a place called ‘the narrows.’ I’d read, from numerous sources, that this crossing is not to be taken lightly; strong winds and tidal currents have resulted in numerous parties being swept away in the attempt. Being out there on my own, I had to make double sure that I didn’t mess it up. This meant aiming to arrive at the crossing on the morning of the 4th day, when a significant lull in the prevailing wind would make for the safest crossing weather that week.
So it was with a little trepidation that I set off from Huon Campground to punch out ~57ks of rough, muddy trail in 3 days. The first section of the trail, to Junction Creek, is highly trafficked in summer and provides some of the roughest walking of the whole trip. But once I turned off onto the PDT proper, the easy travel on benched walking tracks made for a relatively quick hike into camp at Crossing River.
I’d packed 5 days of food for this section, unsure exactly what to expect in terms of my rate of movement. I knew it would be muddy and potentially slow going. In the back of my mind were also concerns that I would not find a boat moored at the northern end of the narrows. I’ve chatted to others who have experienced this first-hand. I worried about whether I might hike hard for 3 days only to be forced to retrace my footsteps on 2 days of food. These were my musings as I hiked along on that first day.
Day 2 – Crossing River to Lost World Plateau (~22km)
My plan necessitated a long second day; the weather was glorious, and I needed to take advantage of it. The route, as it winds through a series of valleys, takes the path of least resistance. It contours hills instead of going over them, it stays on solid ground as much as possible and requires minimal bush bashing. It does this because in 1898, the Port Davey Track was cut as a means of providing shipwrecked sailors a navigable path back to Hobart. The West Coast is prone to huge swells and gale-force winds; shipwrecks were common at that time.
I thought about all of this as I hiked along with my lightweight tent, down sleeping bag and waterproof jacket. I know more than most about this environment, so as I walked, I tried to figure out how I would survive in this place without my gear and my food. There are abundant freshwater burrowing crayfish, a few edible plants, and there is no need to carry water. But staying warm and dry would be a real challenge. In fact, it still is, even with the best gear.
After a long day trudging through bogs and meandering along the contours of the Lost World Plateau, I set up camp on a soggy pad next to a creek that I decided to name ‘the leech palace.’
Day 3 – Lost World Plateau to Joan Point (~17km)
With rain forecast the next day, deciding to hike extra K’s ended up being a great call. Not just because of the rain, though the trail on day 3 was rough going. At the Spring River, the modern-day PDT diverges from the historic PDT, which continues on to Joe Page Bay in Bathurst Harbour. The modern route, however, crosses the river and makes for the narrows via a series of undulating and densely vegetated ridges. The wind, rain and constant saturation from water-laden scrub really tested my wet weather gear!
Arriving at the narrows, my plan was to wait for the forecasted lull in the wind the next morning. But, I had observed, over the previous 3 days, signs of recent northbound foot traffic. Footprints, branches and grass, oriented heading north, all evidence that the most recent traffic on this trail likely came from Maleluca. This meant that I would hopefully find 2 boats on the northern side of the narrows and only need to cross once. The alternative being 3 crossings, in order to leave at least one boat and a set of oars on both banks.
The anticipation slowly built throughout the day, peaking as I strode down the final few steps to the boat ramp. To my great joy (and relief), there were two boats! So I began to reconsider my plan. The trip notes on my map advise that if you can make a crossing when you arrive, you should. This is sound advice: There is no guarantee that the weather will improve, and if it deteriorates, then you may have missed your only opportunity.
So, I checked the wind orientation, triple checked the tide timings that I had downloaded and decided to go for it. I was nervous. I’d never rowed a boat in that way before. The first hundred metres or so, my technique was all over the place, but eventually, I got into a rhythm and ultimately found the passage quite easy. Three days of worry and I’d knocked it over, without a fuss, in about 10 minutes.
I spent the evening at Joan Point, quite chuffed with myself, drying my gear and dealing with some chafe. After a long day getting pelted by sideways rain, the weather had calmed significantly with clearing skies and just a breath of wind.
Day 4 – Joan Point to Maleluca (~13km)
From Joan point it’s only a short hop to Maleluca, and I arrived with plenty of daylight to explore the place. I really enjoyed the Deny King Museum, particularly the information located there about the Orange-Bellied Parrot program. I also resupplied with 7 days of food for the remainder of the walk. I should have continued onto Cox Bight, but my knee was sore, and I was on schedule, so I called the day an active recovery day and focused on eating and stretching.
Day 5 – Maleluca to Buoy Creek (~16km)
As per the Chapman guide, the next day was easy, fast walking, so much so that I arrived at Buoy Creek just after lunch. As it turns out, a Common Dolphin had washed up on the beach near camp, and some Wedge-tailed and White Bellied Sea Eagles were taking it in turns to feed. I consider it a great privilege to be alone in these places, in the absence of human traffic, nature just goes on as it always has. Looking back, I treasure these things that I get to witness.
Day 6 – Buoy Creek to Louisa River (~17km)
Another day of moderate length and difficulty got me to Louisa River, a beautiful, sheltered pocket of temperate rainforest among the button grass and coastal heath that dominate the area. I was becoming frustrated by the length of my days at this point; I have a habit of just walking until I reach my planned camp and realising, once I arrive, that I have too much daylight left. Three days in a row of too much time at camp was getting to me; I don’t deal well with boredom.
Of course, ahead of me, I had the notorious Ironbound Range, so I had to factor that in. But at Louisa River, I resolved that I wasn’t going to do any more short days: From here on out, I would walk the whole day until I arrived at Cockle Creek.
Day 7 – Louisa River to Prion Crossing (~22km)
I like climbing mountains; it’s what I do, a lot of my training is centred around being able to crush vert efficiently. So I wasn’t intimidated by the Ironbounds at all; in fact, I was looking forward to a good, long, hopefully challenging day. I made good time on the ascent, but as I climbed higher, I found the wind absolutely hammering the top of the range. Across the top, I fought an icy gale that chilled my hands and tried to blow me off the boardwalk, so I was quite grateful to reach the sheltered descent. For anyone who’s done the SCT, you know that that relief was short-lived.
The descent off the eastern side of the Ironbound Range is one of the most tedious descents that I have ever done. Every step is an opportunity to slip, roll an ankle or twist a knee, every step is a new obstacle that needs to be figured out. I’m strong on that kind of terrain and still found it to be brutal. This descent gave me automatic respect for anyone who has hiked the SCT, so hats off to you all!
I had lunch in the shelter of Little Deadman’s Bay and pushed on to the Prion boat crossing. After bailing out the boats and doing the boat shuffle, I set up camp just as a cold front began to unload freezing rain. I dived into my tent, cold, wet and sandy after a long day of walking. That feeling: That sense of accomplishment, the sore feet and knees, a hot meal and a warm sleeping bag. That’s what it’s all about.
Day 8 – Prion Crossing to Cockle Creek (~32km)
I woke up the next morning to snow on the mountains. Precipitous Bluff and Pindar’s Peak were both coated with a generous dusting of snow that did not melt all day. A cold southerly blew hard on my right shoulder as I walked, chilling my bones whenever I stopped. Occasional squalls peppered me with small hail and icy rain throughout the day. Holding out against the penetrating wind and icy rain was yet another test passed for the jacket.
I had lunch admiring a rainbow off the tip of South Cape and arrived at South Cape rivulet on sunset. I’d done the section back to Cockle Creek before and remember it being fast and easy, so I decided to push on, rationalising that it would be easier to hitch a ride on Sunday morning if I finished that evening.
Hiking on such a well-trodden path is not difficult in the dark, the only hiccup came on the very last beach. I stepped out of the dunes onto the rocky shoreline, where I was greeted by a cacophony of thundering waves and raging wind. The tide was in, and the salt mist swirling in the air limited the reach of my headlamp. I was wary of the water, my instinct for self-preservation piqued automatically. I intuitively understood that this was not a place to drop your guard.
Most of these beaches have signposts warning of freak waves, and I have personal experience with them. So as I stepped onto the hard, wet sand, I immediately clocked a crest of foam slowly marching up the beach towards me. Judging by its speed, I estimated that it would reach my ankle. As I felt my already wet socks soak in a fresh dose of cold water, I realised the wave was rising to my knees and then to my waist. With a spike of adrenaline, I fought my way out of the water to well above the high-water mark.
This was the only instance that I would say amounts to a close call with danger on my entire hike, and it happened an hour from the trailhead. Stay sharp out there folks.
There is a fascinating time dilation that occurs in the last kilometres of a long day. Somehow those last couple of K’s seem to stretch into an eternity, the further you go, the slower your tired legs move, and the longer it seems to take. Trapped inside a bubble of light, from a headtorch on low power, an hour could be a year. Until, finally, there is no more trail to walk.
My original intent with this walk was to set out for up to 14 days, to take my time and experiment with photography. I had nothing to get back to, and planned my walk as such. I know how I am with a deadline. Days before setting out, something came up that meant I needed to be back to catch a flight on the 10th day. This added urgency changed the experience that I set out to have. I was unable to shift my focus from that goal at all, so as it turned out, I did the trip in 8 days.
I did achieve a few insights from the trip though: I’d experimented a little with nutrition, usually I just focus on calories and protein. This trip, I wanted to see how my body would perform with better-quality fuel. It worked well. I took a lightweight solar panel, which was pointless, I didn’t have enough sunny days to even bother pulling it out. And I had a new rain jacket courtesy of K2.
The Outdoor Research Foray really measured up during what was a pretty wet trip. I barely took it off. There are a couple of things that I really like about this jacket: Firstly, it’s bright, which could save your life if you ever needed help. Rain jackets that are dull coloured don’t make sense in the wilderness. Secondly, it has extended pitt zips, the thing basically zips into a poncho, which is a game changer when you’re working hard but still need to keep wind or rain off, steaming inside a rain jacket sucks.
Lastly, I’m really big on ‘leave no trace.’ I revere these wild places and would hate for my presence to have any lasting impact. Typically, I aim to leave them in better shape than I found them, picking up after people as I go. The OR Foray being free of forever chemicals like PFAS means you’re not unintentionally polluting the environment as you pass through. I like that a lot.
Experiences like this are becoming rare; it’s so hard to get away from the rules, judgments, and trappings of the modern world. So it’s more important than ever to protect our wild places. You need to be aware that the way you move through them matters: For all its austerity, this wilderness is sensitive to your presence. Be mindful, walk lightly and enjoy these places for what they are, a dwindling refuge from the burden of society.