I’ve Been a Hiking Guide in Tasmania for 4 Years – This is What I’ve Learnt

Like many people chasing adventure, Mat moved from the mainland to the mountainous Apple Isle. After four years of peaks and trails, he’s leaving Tassie and reflecting on his time in Australia’s adventure capital.

I’ve worn through several pairs of shoes exploring this wild place. A hip-deep bog almost stole one, fumbling hands atop a mountain almost lost another. Fleet-footed, long-limbed strides have carried me the length and breadth of the island state. Sometimes aching and arduous, other times elated, the kilometres of exploration have accumulated into the thousands. My feet grew two sizes from all of the walking.

I don’t consider myself a hiker – you won’t see me on the trail overburdened and gaitered. I prefer to be light, fast, and free. Despite that, it can’t be argued, exploring Tasmania on foot is the best way to experience it.

I’ve spent hundreds of days in the bush since the less-skilled, mainland-dwelling version of myself was first drawn here by the mountains and reputation of the Overland Track. That’s four years of remote peaks, solo multi-day hikes, and guiding punters. It’s hard to quantify the learning and growth that experience has provoked; writing this article though, is me attempting to do just that.

Read more: The Overland Track: A Guide to Hiking Hut-to-Hut on Tasmania’s Most Famous Hike

Building Habits

My early adventures were full of the same mistakes that newbies often make down here, largely due to underestimating the bush and the weather. But the burned hand teaches best and my rule of thumb became; it’s probably further and harder than you think. Once you begin to appreciate how wild Tassie is, you prepare appropriately. You start to see the forests and mountains as they are.

One habit I picked up early was to always carry an extra layer. That lesson came on a misguided winter ascent of Mt Ossa. I’d hauled my snowboard all the way out there, hoping to ride a few laps of the central gully. Long story short, the line wasn’t in and I was too knackered to care. I’d come in via the Arm River Track early that morning, pushing through sodden scrub that hung heavy across the trail, ready to dump cold water onto me. I hadn’t packed rain pants and was drenched within the first kilometre.

By the time I reached Pelion Hut, the cold had crept into my bones. My hands were so numb I fumbled just trying to unclip my pack. That’s dangerous territory. When you’re moving, you don’t always realise how cold you are. Without the hut that day, things could’ve gone sideways quite easily. These days, the extra layer goes in without question.

Read more: I Ranked All 10 Side Trips of the Overland Track After Walking It Twice

Deepening Understanding

As an outdoorsman, I’m drawn to the rugged, windswept, exposed places where it’s challenging just to exist, where giving a strong effort is the only way through. Tasmania has plenty of those, and it took time, mistakes, and failure to become comfortable in them.

I’ve spent weeks out there alone. In a place like that, your internal dialogue matters. It can unravel you, or it can reshape you. I’ve experienced both.

The Southwest is a wet place – in May it’s wet and cold. But with the completion of the guiding season, I finally had time for an extended solo trip. It’d be my longest to date, 8 to 10 days without seeing another soul. A thorough decompression after six months of giving my energy and passion to guests.

Read more: South Coast Track – 5 Days Hiking in Tassie’s Remote Southwest National Park

The thought behind attempting something longer and further than you’ve ever done is to find challenge in a way that leaves you no choice but to overcome. I hoped the time and isolation would strip me bare, that the self-imposed tempo would break me down, that I would hit some kind of wall and be forced to push through it. Instead, I found myself getting stronger as the trip progressed. As if, day by day, I was learning how much I’m capable of.

The Lighter Side of Adventure

Not all lessons come with that kind of clarity – some land a bit more abruptly. Skin and scoparia, for example, aren’t friends. A couple of years ago I had ambitions to start ticking off the Abels, a list of 158 peaks scattered across the state. But I didn’t want to do it lugging around a massive pack – instead, I had a vision of doing light and fast link-ups.

The proof of concept was three in a day: Cradle, Emmett, and Campbell. I started up Campbell in an icy southerly, traversed the Cradle skyline, hooked out and back to Emmett, then finished with a quick trot back to the car via the Overland Track. For most of the day, everything clicked. I was moving well, almost on instinct. Proper flow state. That ended when I pushed off-track toward Emmett – the scoparia closed in and step by increasingly tender step, the skin was stripped from the outsides of my calves. A painful reminder that the bush always has the final word.

It’s not all about grit and isolation though. Some learnings are lighter, even a bit ridiculous.

I’ve had plenty of spontaneous days out – trail runs, hikes, link-ups in the 20-40km range – where I’ve taken little more than electrolytes and a bag of those lollies. I love them, and I look forward to a sweaty handful every hour.

Is it performance nutrition? No. Is it effective? Absolutely. As the saying goes, if it looks stupid and it works, it isn’t stupid. Stripping an adventure back to movement, simple fuel, and good company gets to the essence of why we go outside in the first place. It’s a system I’ll stick with.

A Refined Perspective

The deep connection that I’ve made with this environment makes me a good guide but as an operator in the tourism space, it’s important to acknowledge that values matter: Commercialisation is one of the more pressing threats for our natural spaces. Behind the scenes, various groups are actively seeking and being granted access to private developments within our national parks.

This is not hyperbole.

Read more: Pros & Cons of Tassie’s Controversial ‘Next Iconic Walk’

Wild Mag has published a definitive piece on the topic, available online in two parts (part one and part two). This is required reading for anyone who values the preservation of our wilderness areas.

One of the more encouraging things I’ve found along the way is the hiking community itself. Out there in the bush, people tend to be the best versions of themselves. More than once I’ve emerged, after days on my own, a wild animal craving human connection and been welcomed straight into a group. It makes sense.

People who choose to spend time out there tend to share a certain mindset. There’s an unspoken understanding. In nature you’re not defined by your job or your background. You’re just a human moving through the landscape. The ego drops away, and what’s left is usually good-natured and open.

I see that shift in my work all the time. On day one, groups arrive fresh from the city, often carrying stress, judgement, and ego. But give it a few days on the trail and something shifts. The noise fades. The edges soften. Leaving people more present, more themselves. Watching that transformation again and again, it becomes obvious how much we need time in nature.

I’ve always enjoyed being outside but my time in Tasmania has shown me how deep that connection can be. ‘The more you know about a place, the more you care about it’ has become my professional mantra.

Facilitating that connection for others, taking people into these places and watching them form their own relationship with them, has been one of the most meaningful parts of my time here. As I enter the next chapter of my life, I’m grateful for the years spent learning what this place demands and what it gives back.

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