A bush bash from Farmhouse creek, over Mt Bobs to the Salisbury river, to the falls and out. It was to be a gruelling mission the scene was set.

The cast, Jen - Sydneysider and a seal researcher notable for her seal teeth torn waterproofs. Spikey - A Tasmanian local and seasoned walker, known to be seen at bars in a purple safari suit. Jon Trainer - local, a chemist for Cascade breweries and working in secret on dehydrated beer. Mark - Sydneysider about to be bruised and beaten by the Tasmanian wilderness. Finally Sinkers Sydneysider and bushwalking steam train/bush trashing cannonball.

Mission one: Supplies. Purity Sandy Bay in Hobart. One shopping trolley, five people, a mountain of food, $730. Ouch. Then the impossible squeezing of 12 days worth of food into backpacks, and the associated groans as their weights were tested on backs. Night fell and the departure immenent except for one small hiccup - where is Farmhouse Creek? Our only road map was consulted and subsequently taken into Spikey's car, along with the statement "Farmhouse creek and follow us!"

A sound plan had Spike not been impersonating Colin McRae, blasting off into the distance. Following was a short lived spectacle, even with the guidance of a late night chicken shop in Geeveston we were hopelessly lost.

For hours we drove, following the endless mazes of forestry roads in the dark looking for the elusive Farmhouse creek. Tethers were fraying, tension building. Suddenly on the horizon - a white station wagon! ... We hoped fervently it was our missing party pulling up to realise... it wasn't.

The young alpha male of the pack sauntered over,
"Got a cig mate?"
"Er yes" handing him one.
"I don't suppose you know where farmhouse creek is do you?"
"Youse not those tree hugging greenies are ya?"
He replied with a menacing sneer,
"I think you are in the wrong place"
Panic.
"So what are you doing here?"
"Sinkin piss and shootin shit" was the reply.

Exit. Rapidly. Fleeing in terror from Deliverance styled hillbillies.

11:30pm, Geeveston. Not exactly a thriving metropolis. We found ourselves a B&B, and told our sorry tale.

Sleep. Shower. Continental breakfast, the last taste of luxury, before arming ourselves with a map from Forestry Tasmania and making our way to Farmhouse creek, excited about finding our colleagues there. They weren't.

We waited. There is only so much time one can loiter in a car park tortured by curious bees and mosquitoes. We left a note and left.

By some strange fate we passed each other on the road. A screech of brakes, frenzied reversing and the slamming of doors as we all piled out of cars. I held up a hand almost immediately before grabbing a new battery for the video camera. Setting it up, hitting record the hand was dropped.

Fireworks flew. Most of it inappropriate adjectives, with some rather violent verbs. It was not a scene for small children. We eventually stopped, coming to the conclusion that it was all Spikey's fault. Seeing this in print should only solidify the matter.

We were somewhat geographically embarrassed, spending the night at Farmhouse creek, in shame.

We set off early the next morning, gearing up and taking on the track to Lake Sydney. I had my first experience with cutting grass. Those following spotted my blood spattered across the track. My swearing at vegetation had begun. Hills, steep descents and then a muddy cesspit soon named Îthe swamp of sorrows' after an hour of trudging through it.

Jon wore his calorie counter watch. In half a days walking he had burned through 4700 calories! Bushwalking - love it. Where else can you eat a kilo of salami without guilt!

It was hot, and exhausting. A love affair developed between me and my camelback., greedily guzzling water from its plastic teat. It was addictive, and like a small child I wailed every time I pulled the teat out.

Some hours later Lake Sydney and camped on its shores, or so we thought. I awoke to the sound of a waterfall puncturing my sleeping state with a sense of panic. Unzipping the fly looking out and shock the lake had disappeared!

During the night the large pond area we had camped next to had drained into the sinkholes that were now visible. We packed, pancakes for breakfast and set upon our way to the summit of Mt Bobs.

Apparently there is a track. We didn't find it so we scrub bashed through, making our own trail through stumps, fallen logs, moss covered branches and midget holes. Knee wrecking carnage we made our way up the face clutching precariously at mere plantlets as we scaled what seemed sheer rock faces.

We made camp, on a plain of cushion plants, little tarns and a small clump of King Billy pines. Petzl lamp cooking over the Trangia I prepared my signature dish...

Most people have a very low opinion of Deb (Instant mashed potato) I carried it because it was light. As I proudly displayed my Deb, I heard groans, and bitter twisted comments. I soldiered on, preparing the main dish - tuna, cheese sauce, an entire Camembert cheese then adding the secret ingredient - a splash of white truffle oil.

It has revolutionised camp cooking. I have never seen so many people salivate over instant mashed potato. Converts.

In bed just after dark, at a very late 7:30pm. A miserable sleep on uneven ground, sliding all over my Thermarest, discovering the small part of my sleeping bag that just wont zip up, and having to listen to Spikey snore. A sound that can only be described as a leaking bagpipe.

Morning. And a war was waged. Spikey and I both with full bladders fought to be the one who stayed in the tent longest. Spikey failed, and roused to make coffee. I surfaced soon after, and with a sense of horrid dread put on cold wet socks, and even colder, wetter boots. Some debate as to whether to continue to Vanishing Falls ensued since we had embaressingly lost a day. We packed and headed on our way to the saddle between Mt Bobs and the first Knob.

Our first taste of alpine scrub bashing. Donning full scrub armour, and I wholly recommend a set of forearm length leather welders gloves (Sno sealed!) we pushed through a maze of Scaparia on our way to the saddle. We topped out, and then began our descent . The landscape changed and became a dense twisted jungle of intertwined branches and think moss. Most walking was done over a complex lattice of roots and branches, rarely did out feet touch real ground. Mossy, slippery, midget holes and bear traps galore. Wet, sodden, falling all over the place we battled on. Looking down at the ground several meters below we felt like Ewoks.

It was a short walk, but exhausting. More scrub bashing to reveal a rare campsite amongst a stand of King Billy pines. It was open, and dry. We had the afternoon to kill, so under the guidance of course master Sinkers a 9 hole mini golf course was created - complete with mossy tee off greens.

Bobs Links, Par 30, members only. GPS coordinates available on request.

Next morning we needed water. A two hour return hike to the other side of the saddle found a small creek. Bladders filled the day was spent .playing golf.

That night a shriek was heard, as Jon (sleeping in a bivvy bag) discovered to his horror a huge funnel web spider in bed with him. Welcome to the B zone. Not a happy camper.

My hip had taken a beating on the way across, and needed a day of rest. I discovered a potent pain relief combination - Voltarin (Anti inflammation gel) and Tiger balm. The only problem is when it's the inner thigh that hurts, it always jumps across to sensitive areas, making for a long howl and a very interesting dance. Somehow we ended up in a wasabe and cheese eat off. Nasty.

The rest of the crew headed up to the top of knob one the next day. I found a rock and sat watching the view, for many long hours, an amazing vista looking across to Federation peak. I sat as the sock Shepard, tending to my large flock of drying socks, wrapped in a sleeping bag, windproof gear, loads of food and getting a full dose of wilderness karma. Magic. Sunset was a violent red, silhouetting the twisted peaks of Federation - it was the evil depths of Mordor.

Bash Day. A slog over the saddle down to Roberts river. The Vanishing falls mission had taken a little nosedive due to the Bobs Links masters series. A 7 hour bash in full scrub armour, wet mossy logs, midget holes, broken trees, cutting grass and general bush hell.

It was on this section we discovered tree karma. Bashing through the scrub results in a Îfew' branches been broken, and in some unspoken language the trees know of the peril of their fallen brethren. Rude slaps or even very rude slaps to the face from branches out of nowhere, collapsing trees and numerous falls. Jen our resident mine sweeper managed to find every single midget hole and bear trap - easily taking a hundred falls (She counted) and some worry as to whether her coccyx had broken.

Exhausted, and irritable we found Roberts river, and after some searching a gorgeous campsite under a stand of tall Huon pines. That night it rained for the first time, enough though to effectively flood Jon in his bivvy bag. From that night on all we heard from Jon were Bivvy moans and bad puns of old Elvis songs - the kind that stick in your head "in the grotto "

Water, a luxury. We spent the day in this Huon oasis, and dedicated it to eating. Under the guise of pack lightening it was a frenzy of truffled Deb, cheese, salami, mountain bread, honey, bbq shapes, chocolate and soups. Some whittling and discussion about creating another golf coursed preluded a restless nights sleep next to the leaking bagpipes again.

Our objective for the next day was to head up the Boomerang. We were pleasantly surprised most of the bash was spent on terra firma, a refreshing change from the Ewok maze we had been navigating through. It was an easy climb compared to some of what we had endured - path finding par excellence by Sinkers, either due to his navigational superiority or more as I suspect his barrelling straight through the bush and make a path ideology.

Abuse started at "I hate moss" to "I hate cutting grass" to finally "I hate Scaparia" as we battled through walls seemingly impenetrable of it. It was a vicious slog, but found both river and a cleared spot to camp. Praise be to the satellite gods, regularly praised by holding up an offering of the GPS in clear spots. A cold clear night, with stunning stars. I mastered polar fleece origami that night, folding a complex number of folds to create the ultimate pillow.

A sunny morning saw an explosion of colours as we plastered our wet cold gear over every piece of sunlight scrub. We made like lizards and basked before heading off to summit the Boomerang. Such different terrain here - mudstone like a foreign planet it was a short climb with pristine views.

We could see the Lake Sydney camp below us, and to our shock a large number of tents. Heading along the ridge to the end it was time to bash down.

Hell. Bauera, Horizontal, Scaparia, cutting grass and every other twisted, tortured tough alpine plant was against us. It was the most impenetrable scrub yet, so thick that you could commando roll with backpack over the canopy - until finding a ditch and plummeting to the ground. Thud, and a loud involuntary expulsion of air.

Small cliffs were easily tree walked - the growth so thick that it was possible to simply walk off and navigate down. The concept of scrub surfing presented some interesting board design ideas.

Serious bashing, fully armoured, welted and beaten we hammered down the hill. The setting sun added a sense of urgency to the mission. Nearing the bottom suddenly a large cliff appeared, Sinkers found it and quickly retreated back up to find a better passage down. I wandered along and found a sparsely tree lined section of the cliff - it started with an out sticking tree fork. Shuffling through it I was suddenly disturbed to discover my backpack was stuck in it. Feet dangling underneath I rocked forwards, harder And HARDER until it freed - the momentum carrying me off my perch and suddenly into mid air.

Branches were grasped - VERY quickly, and I hung there, dangling in mid air. I dropped the pack - an awkward, painstaking and fear filled process - while hanging on one arm with a 30 kg pack. It made a sickening thud as it hit the ground. Lightened of the load I dug my boots into the cliffs, and gently used the rotting tree branches to make my way down. The rest of the crew followed, dropping their packs first though.

Racing Down we hit camp, and chatted to the other campers - who we knew. They laughed at our efforts reporting how they had heard us bash down and then suddenly hearing "I'm not going down that!" (perhaps with a few expletives that have been omitted here). Our food stash at lake Sydney of Burritos was a fitting finale to our adventure along with a stunning sunset with clouds of eagles and angels.

Our final morning roused to the smells of the other camp - cooking bacon. It smelt good. Too good. We ate food remnants, with glaring looks at the bacon friers. A walk out, which tore the final ligaments of my hip had me limping back to the car, where pain was only placated by a cold Cascade Pale Ale that had been stashed before.

Showering brought about moans that should not be heard in public.

Aftermath

Bashing through impenetrable scrub is excellent training for rugby players, thugs and for getting a drink at a crowded bar. Scaparia puncture wounds are a cheap acupuncture replacement. Cutting grass is a #&*! Anti inflammatories are your friends.

We didn't make our original destination of Vanishing Falls, but most certainly managed to become vanishing fools.

Its hard to adjust back to urban life. Cars, television, news of the world and neighbours with lawnmowers. Life is simple in the wild - food, water, sleep. It is a world where laughter and fun run with high physical exertion giving a sense of self satisfaction in ones ability to survive. Very addictive.

Highlights

• Drinking 16 year old single malt whiskey from the sqeezy plastic top of a sports water bottle.
• Eating a kilo of Salami - losing weight.
• Learning the Zen of Stuff sacks, and how to not tangle up all the straps.
• Sucking sweetened condensed milk straight out of the tube.
• Discovering a small ecosystem growing in my hair - a combination of moss, slime moulds and small insects - nurturing it.
• Brushing teeth
• Cleaning eating utensils with moss - and considering it thoroughly hygienic
• Wondering if I would get voted off an episode of survivor
• Raw natural beauty.
• Water.

Glossary

Midget Hole
Where the gap between branches or logs is so small that only a midget can fit through. Requiring a contortionists dexterity to navigate you and a full pack through. Most suitably attacked with "transform into wombat" special power.

Bear Trap
In dense moss filled forests, where the moss had grown over holes between branches and an unwary foot placement can send the stepper into RPD, or in some cases straight up to the neck.

RPG
Rapid branch groin contact. Very painful.

The rude slap
Where out of the blue a tree limb will whiplash into face, groin or eye. Caused by following a colleague too closely or tree karma.

The very rude slap
Like a rude slap but one that draws blood.

In the grotto
A damned addictive song sung in bad tone by Jonnie -constantly. Based on the Elvis classic "In the ghetto"

Tree Karma
The secret language of the trees that conspires against you as you carve a wanton path of destruction to make a trail.

The Precious
Lagavulin, single malt whiskey stored in plastic squeezy top sports bottles.

© Mark Fennell 2003