To read the first part of our hike go here: Part 1 of the Overland Track.
DAY FOUR — Reaching the Sky
Pelion Plains Hut to Kia Ora Hut via Mt Ossa
This morning managed to be both one of the best - and one of the worst - days of the entire trip. Unfortunately, Kathy woke with a nasty bout of vertigo. The sort that makes simply sitting upright feel like you’re trapped inside a malfunctioning washing machine. With real concern about whether she could even walk, we talked through worst-case scenarios, including the dreaded words: emergency evacuation.
But being the absolute trooper she is, Kathy decided to push on to the next hut despite being sicker, and walking more crookedly, than a drunken sailor in a rolling storm.
From the hut, it was a 4.5-kilometre climb to Pelion Gap — the turn-off for Mount Ossa, which several of us were quietly hoping to tackle — and then another four kilometres on to the next hut (a distance that felt wildly optimistic for Kathy at this point).
Leaving the hut, the offer of blue skies was a relief after rain and snow from the first few days. Unfortunately, the thick canopy of beech rainforest decided to keep this good news hidden from us for at least the next couple of hours.
Heading into the green forest, the track serves up its usual mixed platter of boardwalk, tangled roots, mud holes and wooden steps, all bundled into a 280-metre ascent carefully designed to make you question every item in your pack. After 1.5 kilometres of steady climbing, we detour briefly to Douglas Creek, where pristine, crystal-clear water spills in cool, cascading ribbons, over dark moss covered rocks.
It is not long before we are thrust into the bright light of the open woodland, flush in orange from the Scorpia bush, where we reach the high saddle between Mount Pelion East and Mount Ossa.
This is where the group split for the day. With heroic encouragement from Blake (our guide) and Acho providing steady moral support, they shepherded Kathy onward to the next hut like a professional search-and-rescue unit (Kathy tells me afterwards the constant bad humour of Acho was - for once - a welcome distraction).
With Kathy insisting I leave her behind (that is one amazing wife), the rest of us turn uphill to tackle Mount Ossa: a jagged dolerite beast and, at 1,617 metres, Tasmania’s highest peak. What begins as a gentle slope soon becomes a short but steep climb, mercifully aided by a newly built staircase.
From there we skirt the edge of Mount Doris, passing ancient dead trees whose limbs lie discarded on the ground like the giant bones of long-extinct dinosaurs.
At one point we cross an area of iridescent green cushion plants dotted with tiny pools and wind-flattened shrubs. Our guide told us a “true story” (which meant it probably wasn’t) about Japanese gardeners climbing the mountain each year to tend their alpine garden. There were no bonsai shears in sight, but nature had clearly been doing an excellent job of landscaping this fairy-tale patch all on her own.
Climbing higher once more, we round the western shoulder of Mount Doris and finally catch our first proper glimpse of Mount Ossa looming ahead. The twin spires look convincingly like the summit. However, the true peak is still hidden beyond a sheer wall of rock which stand like enormous stone gateposts, guarding what lies beyond — and the only way forward was straight between them.
It was here that the hike officially became a climb. Confronted by steps that would make a StairMaster weep, we began hauling ourselves up the lower face one step at a time. With every lung-burning ascent, the views grow wider: the hulking bulk of Mount Massif (appropriately named) to the south, while the ever present Mount Pelion East keeps a watch behind us.
With our legs rapidly dissolving into jelly, we unanimously declare it a perfect moment for lunch. While our guide attempts what looks suspiciously like the early stages of arson (wrestling a kerosene stove to provide a cup of coffee), the rest of us perch on the edge of the world, dangling our feet - not over the edge Kathy - and feast on scenery to die for.
Can you see John in the bottom left corner?
With bellies full we turn our mind to the final push up Mount Ossa. Looking up, several people immediately point at the twin peaks and the narrow, near-vertical gully between them and ask, with great sincerity, “We’re not going up that, are we?”
……We were.
Despite the concern (and fear of heights from one of our party) we push on up the slot canyon. Here, the climb now officially turns into scrambling, which then turns into something suspiciously resembling rock climbing. We pick our way through the boulder field, occasionally hauling one another up the bigger steps like a human chain.
After clinging and scrambling our way through the narrow rock channel, it is only a final, determined push to reach the upper plateau — a moment greeted with collective relief that no one had tumbled dramatically off the side of the mountain. The terrain suddenly softens and widens, and just ahead something glints strangely in the sunlight. For a brief second it looks like a giant mirror laid across the ground, reflecting clouds and rock in perfect symmetry. Up close, it reveals itself as a tarn: a small, glassy mountain pool cradled in a hollow scooped out by ancient glaciers.
A short walk from here brings us to the final summit: a pile of elephant-sized boulders stacked like a geological game of marbles. There was much discussion along the way about mountain peaks resembling nipples (a topic I will unpack a bit later), However, sitting on the roof of Tasmania, the summit reveals a panorama of peaks of a different kind: Cradle Mountain behind us, Frenchmans Cap far west and the vast wilderness of lakes and valleys beyond. Peaks bore epic names - Mount Geryon, Mount Olympus, Mount Pelion - sounding more like Greek myths than walking destinations. Someone claimed you could see New Zealand on a clear day, which I filed under “guide exaggerations”.
While many of the group leap onto their phones — this being one of the very few places on the track where the outside world dares to intrude — I choose to ignore civilisation and simply sit with the views, soaking in every last morsel of sky, stone and silence. I could stay here for hours, but reality eventually intervenes in the form of a group photo to prove we actually made it. With our achievement officially documented, we shoulder our packs once more and begin the long, ankle-negotiating journey back down the mountain.
While the hike up was a challenge for many of us, there was a hint of trepidation on how we would manage to get back down again. However, little did we expect that one of our poor trail buddies would make the decision to trip over on one of the flattest section of the entire track and come crashing to the ground. As we all rush to help, Braiden is already working through the emergency evacuation protocol and how to arrange for a helicopter.
But like a miracle - or at least a very determined resurrection - she stands up again, shaking out a very sore and bruised – but still functional – ankle. The mountain had made its point to never get complacent. Heeding its wisdom, we descend carefully, helping one another down the steeper sections and resisting the urge to become human bowling balls plummeting off the edge.
This was taken moments before the fateful fall…
After a long and exhausting return climb we eventually reach Pelion Gap again. An amazing sense of achievement comes over all of us, not only for summiting Mt Ossa, but even more from not having to be helicoptered out.
With four kilometres still to go and sunset approaching, the promise of Kia Ora Hut is deeply motivating. The Du Cane Range glowes in the distance as we drop into Pinestone Valley. While I try to take in the scenery, my thoughts are now firmly on Kathy: had she descended into a vertigo induced coma and helicopters had been called, or managed to survive the walk and was still able to stand vertical?
Reaching the hut, I am relieved to see her lying in the bed, still conscious without the world spinning around her. By evening the symptoms begin to dissipate and we all get to stand on the deck looking out over Cathedral Mountain.
If the last few nights had not put on a good enough show, then tonight was the curtain call. As the sun set and darkness begins to envelope the mountain, a flame red spotlight appears low in the horizon, shinning directly onto Cathedral Mountain. While I am not a religions person, looking at the mountain named after a place of worship, and a God like ray of light setting the side ablaze in red, it was a sight to behold.
As we watch Tasmania’s own fiery spectacle, reminiscent of Uluru’s glow, we toast to two big sets of achievements - for some of us reaching the highest summit in Tasmania, and for others getting to the Hut in one piece.
Side Note: I previously mentioned the reference to some mountain peaks resembling nipples, however little did I realise the female anatomy would become a major topic of discussion. If you are a female and ever struggle with your day pack not having adjustable traps, I would highly recommend you do not use something to tie them together in front of you. Otherwise, they may inadvertently bring together said breasts to create a significantly more enlarged cleavage and you are likely to become the but of all jokes for the rest of the trip. Mountains may look like nipples, but I am not sure how this got called “Chicky Chicky Wah Wahs”! ….. Maybe Gabe will know?