Why You Should Hike the Port Davey Track, and Several Reasons Why You Shouldn’t

When Roux and Mia realised they could skip the flight to the remote trailhead of the South Coast Track and instead hike an extra 75km deep through the wilderness of Lutruwita/Tasmania, it sounded like a win-win. So why doesn’t everyone take this approach? They were about to find out.

We Are Explorers acknowledges that this hike is located on the traditional Country of South-West Nation Palawa, the Needwonnee and Ninene people. We pay our respects to them as the Traditional Custodians and recognise that sovereignty was never ceded.

‘The mountains are calling and I must go’. Famed naturalist, John Muir, put these words to paper and spoke into the soul of every adventurer. A question of motive. Why do we forgo comfort, seek uncertainty, and choose to venture into the great outdoors? For some, it’s a journey of self-discovery. For others, it’s about pushing human limitation. Our motivation was much simpler. We wanted to avoid the $350 flight to Melaleuca.

And so, the mud plains were calling and we had to walk.

Well, not exactly. First, we had to hitchhike. If we were making such an effort to avoid taking the flight, there was no way we were going to pay for a five-hour shuttle service. So, thumbs outstretched and packs still enthusiastically strapped to our backs, the journey began.

In the fading light of day one, we realised we were in for an epic!

As we stood roadside patiently waiting for a ride, we were approached by a man who had just finished the trail we were about to undertake. Visibly fatigued and clearly scarred from his experience, he tried his best to talk us out of starting it. 

Realising he couldn’t change our minds, he admitted defeat – his final words to us:

‘I mean, if you enjoy suffering, then go for it’. 

Tasmania boasts some of Australia’s finest trails: the Overland Track, the Western Arthurs Traverse, the Three Capes – we suggest prioritising these before the Port Davey Track. Most of these trails are named after the unique wilderness landscapes they traverse. The Port Davey, on the other hand, is named after the place you’re trying to get to.

A standard view from the Track: Seeding Buttongrass cast against a vast Jurassic backdrop | Photo by Mia Fracaro

It is debated as to why the first person was trying to get to (or away from) Port Davey. Some speculate that it follows an ancient Aboriginal trading route, as is likely for the adjoining South Coast Track. 

Others have suggested that it was pioneered by tin miners, hoping to get rich. It may have even been cut as an escape route for shipwrecked sailors – a mildly more appealing alternative to certain death. Theories aside, one thing is agreed on, the track was probably for business, not leisure.

It’s Not What It Seems

We arrived at the trailhead at 11am, just over 24 hours of hitchhiking later. As we waved goodbye to our ride, consulted our track notes, and scoured the map, it seemed likely that the worst was behind us. 

The opening line of John Chapman’s 1978 guidebook promises a ‘well-graded track which is easy to follow’. If such a track did ever exist, it had been quietly annihilated by Buttongrass sometime after Chapman walked it. But from the self-assured comfort of the trailhead, this was not yet apparent. 

Cross reference Chappy’s notes with a topographic map from the couch at home and, like us, you would conclude there was nothing to worry about. On paper the Port Davey Track takes the form of an unassuming black line that passes through the south west corner of Tasmania, slicing the UNESCO World Heritage Area in half. It easily weaves around any major mountain range that gets in its way, climbing no higher than 300m above sea level. 

On foot the track takes a much muddier form. Calling it mud feels inaccurate. Mud is what you find in a puddle. This is an entire landscape. Sometimes there was a track beneath it, but mostly just more mud. Quickly, you become intimately aware of the different types of mud, how to perceive the depth of said mud and consequently how to extract yourself from it. Particularly the waist-deep, gooey kind.

Read more: 10 Tips on How To Leave No Trace in Our Wild Places

Mia smiling because, in this case, the mud was only up to her knees!

After several hours of walking and wading, we reached a small wooden sign, battered by decades of weather. At first glance it seemed to be pointing in the wrong direction. The obvious trail we had been walking on, clearly continued forward and up into the beautiful Arthurs Range.

On the other hand, the sign, labelled ‘Port Davey’  gingerly indicated a turn to the right, where a quickly fading foot pad vanished into dense scrub. 

Two paths diverge | Photo by Mia Fracaro

You Better Like Water

The weather forecast for the week didn’t look promising. We’d aligned our hike to prioritise the best weather for the South Coast Track, the main objective of this 12 day jaunt. 

More pressingly, was two days with 1–20mm forecasted. In Tasmania, this is meteorological shorthand for ‘something will happen, but we’re not sure what’. Each night we would go to bed with our fingers crossed, and each morning we would wake to the sound of rain on our flapping tent. Even the mosquitos and leeches seemed disappointed with the conditions, seeking refuge in the warm air between our tent and the fly. 

Breakfast was cooked inside, one person attending to the stove, the other defending against leeches attempting to enter through the ventilation hole. Bags were packed, wet clothes peeled back on, and muddy shoes laced. Lastly, the tent was collapsed into a sodden heap, and strapped to the outside of our packs. 

Then we started to walk, only stopping to eat.

The aftermath. We dried our sodden clothes under clouded skies and a dense canopy | Photo by Mia Fracaro

The days were spent trudging through mud, squeezing between overgrown scrub, and fording freezing rivers. Frequently the scrub was so dense that we would lose the trail. Backtracking became the only way forward. 

After setting up the tent in the driest puddle we could find, we would wash our stained legs in the river, taking turns to pick leeches off each other – comparing their size for a laugh.

It wasn’t all this grim. One afternoon we found a sachet of Milo laying in the middle of the track. The previous hiker’s nightmare, and our (and the environment’s) lucky day! It dried out our sodden bodies from the inside out as we cherished every sip. 

Crossing the Bathurst Narrows. If only these boats could talk… | Photo by Mia Fracaro

The Beauty in a Track Less Travelled

Five days after locking our van and walking into the unknown, we stood atop a Buttongrass- clad hill, no different from any we’d climbed before, staring out across the endless mud plains ahead. 

Our gear was falling apart. Rain pants split from crotch to ankle. Boots peeled open at the sides, brown socks spilling out. Hiking poles bent crooked. The $350 we’d walked so far to save was destined to go straight back into replacing our gear. And no trip to Paddy Pallin could fix two broken souls – or our faith in John Chapman.

But in that moment, through dampened spirits and squinting eyes, we caught a glimpse of something on the horizon. A small antenna. The Melaleuca airstrip.

Mia stands relieved aside the Charles King Memorial Hut – A celebratory photo captured on a waterlogged camera

We arrived in Melaleuca to a full house, opening the door of the hikers’ hut to humid air and lively chatter. Word travelled quickly that we’d come off the Port Davey Track, and a volunteer soon greeted us with a tray of oat slice. Over cups of tea, we exchanged stories with fellow hikers, many of whom had tackled the Port Davey in youthful ignorance ‘back in the day’ – and swore never to do it again.

In typical Southwest Tasmanian fashion, flights to Melaleuca had been cancelled for five days by the appalling weather. With no one able to get in or out, we waved goodbye to our new found friends and set off once more, discovering that we had the entire South Coast Track, and all its wild beauty, to ourselves.

So there you have it. The Port Davey Track might be wet, muddy, and horrendously overgrown. But if you’ve already walked Tasmania’s classics, or simply ‘enjoy suffering’, then go for it.

Just don’t expect to save any money.

At last! Solid ground on the South Coast Track, and blue skies above our heads | Photo by Mia Fracaro