Retracing My Steps on the Heysen Trail – The Thru-Hike That Changed My Life

In 2018, Josh stepped onto South Australia’s iconic 1,200km Heysen Trail with little idea of what lay ahead. Six years and a pandemic-induced return to the office later, he needed a reminder of the journey’s transformative power.

We acknowledge and respect the Traditional Custodians whose ancestral lands are located along the Heysen Trail: the Ngarrindjeri, the Kaurna, the Peramangk, the Ngadjuri, the Nukunu, the Banggarla and the Adnyamathanha. We pay our respects to these Traditional Custodians and recognise that their sovereignty was never ceded.

I plunged my fresh-out-the-box trekking pole into Parachilna Gorge’s parched earth. The dirt grinding into its aluminium grooves felt oddly cathartic, each new scratch a reminder of its purpose – maintaining balance across broken surfaces.

In contrast, I’d spent the last decade, 470km further south in a sterile Adelaide office, keeping my grooves dirt-free, my purpose unscratched, and my balance untested. With 1,200km of wildly diverse Heysen Trail in front of me, I had no choice but to embrace raw unpredictability.

Read more: The Abundant Landscapes of Australia’s Longest-Marked Hiking Trail

Steering the pole through the shards of sedimentary rock, I arrived at the northern trailhead signage. I’d hoped to absorb some last-minute motivation. Instead, the sign warned: Do not attempt to walk this trail unless you are well equipped and experienced.

Neither my gear nor my hiking acumen had been properly tested, and besides a handful of half-studied maps, I had no idea what lay ahead. Little did I know that the following two months of forests, fields, and beachfronts would reshape my identity and reroute my life’s journey.

It’s easy to be swept away by the romance of a long-distance hike, especially your first. Memories of all-body aches, mangled gear, and rain-soaked days evaporate, replaced by the trail’s life-affirming lessons.

YouTuber Elina Osborne perhaps said it best in her short film, It Is The People. ‘Your first thru-hike is like your first love. You dive into the unknown. Carefree, innocent to what lies ahead. And life suddenly makes sense.’

This was exactly my experience solo hiking the Heysen Trail.

My 2018 expedition was transformative – it strengthened my resilience, boosted my self-belief, kicked off my writing career, and catapulted me into a world of long-distance adventure.

Six long, COVID-stained years had passed since the trail first dismantled and reconstructed my sense of self. After pivoting back into the office over the pandemic, my hiking heart desperately needed a jumpstart.

It was time to revisit the Heysen, reversing my journey from the southern trailhead at Cape Jervis to tackle the redeveloped and rebranded Wild South Coast Way (WSCW).

Admittedly, this return would mark my second attempt at a Heysen section hike. In 2023, an ill-fated 107km outback jaunt between Hawker and Quorn ended with an all-terrain ambulance ride from the flyblown reaches of The Dutchmans Stern Conservation Park.

The combination of a half-healed cold and a string of 40°C days landed my freckled frame in Quorn District Memorial Hospital. A final twist followed with mistreatment for low potassium, resulting in a 2am dash to the regional centre Port Augusta for an encore of intravenous drips, blood tests, and hospital-grade cheese sandwiches.

It was a lot. But, through the chaos (and the potential for grave medical complications), my mind focused on the trail’s lessons, steeling my resolve to return.

Mercifully, my WSCW departure was a comparable doddle. I collected supplies, reserved campsites, and booked bus tickets on LinkSA’s new Fleurieu Peninsula service all the night before the hike. My full Heysen thru-hike took months of meticulous planning; my 2024 reprise was cobbled together in a few short hours.

The Finale Reborn

Much like my thru-hike, the path beyond the southern trailhead promised fresh beginnings. But Cape Jervis’ turbulent afternoon skies instantly transported me back to 2018’s final steps.

The squally conditions that had ushered in my Heysen finish line now escorted me out through the weather-beaten scrub. Memories of the day followed – the sense of achievement, the exhaustion, the shredded left ankle… An hour into the trail, my hippocampus was buzzing.

This introspection turned outward as the clouds fractured over Kangaroo Island to the west, dyeing the coastline a decadent red.

The twilight spectacle mesmerised for 30 glorious minutes before the sun narrowed to the Eye of Sauron, leering at me from the horizon. A final headlamp-lit hour was spent escaping the gaze, climbing through Deep Creek Conservation Park‘s remnant forests to Cobbler Hill Campground.

Unexpected Contrasts

Feeling the gluteus pangs that inevitably ping after swapping a sedentary office environment for a late-night hike, I gingerly shimmied over to my backpack in search of sustenance.

I discovered that my rice crackers had been mulched into confetti, and my two remaining hot cross buns were squished beyond recognition. Luckily, I wasn’t there for the catering. The Easter treats powered me through the pack-up, leaving only non-perishable snacking until Victor Harbor’s pub scene, a further four days’ walk east.

As day two unfolded, previously unseen landscapes filled my vision. In 2018, a pea soup fog had swallowed much of the peninsula’s craggy southwest. I remembered manoeuvring through the rain-drenched wattle, imagining what lay beyond the mist.

Six years on, this pristine slice of Ngarrindjeri Country exceeded all expectations. Across the morning, pale, overcast skies illuminated the landscape, diffusing light across the tsunamic scrub-lined hills. The differences didn’t stop there.

Passing through Wuldi Krikin Ngawanthi/Eagle Waterhole Campground, four-year-old Holly, on her first overnight camping trip, was eager to chat. Porridge smeared across her cheek, she explained in great detail what to do if I should see a snake, before declaring she was going to be Elsa when she grew up.

In the evening, at Yapari Ngawanthi/Cliffs Campground, I sat with a Swiss couple who had fled the European winter to relish in South Australia’s warm nights and crisp sea breezes.

The WSCW’s new hike-in campgrounds are another brilliant addition since 2018 – spacious kitchen shelters, long-drop toilets, running rainwater, USB ports, and purpose-built tent pads – a touch of remote bushland luxury. Opened in 2022, they’re still clean, modern, unexpected, and exactly what my bones needed after a sweaty day two.

Remembering Ghosts

Yapari Ngawanthi‘s dreamy, dappled-lit campground slowed my morning routine. Sheltered on a leeward slope, the ocean’s powerful gusts were confined to the treetop canopy, isolating the rhythmic rustle of gum leaves without wrinkling my rainfly. A dozy, meditative hour passed before my sleeping bag overheated, and I had to roll outside.

Emerging onto the platform, I gestured a half-stretch half-wave toward my camping comrades and began dragging out my gear. Side-by-side, we played to our stereotypes. The methodical Swiss: organised state-of-the-art kit and a neatly folded lightweight bivvy. The 30-something-year-old Australian bachelor: sprawled, much-beaten dry bags and a gaffer-taped groundsheet jammed into its stuff sack.

It was immediately evident much of my gear was ‘well-loved’. In fact, my trusty MSR Hubba Hubba tent, 3L Camelbak water reservoir, and 360 Degrees cooking set had ridden shotgun on my thru-hike. It felt like I’d reunited pals for a nostalgic adventure.

Having spent hours reading and writing trail articles, plus advising aspiring Heysen hikers, I’d developed an eerily accurate recall of its route. So, on day three, I was puzzled to find several unfamiliar kilometres.

I eyeballed the map, wondering where I’d lost my bearings, but everything checked out. I’d seemingly blocked out this luscious stretch of coconut-scented gorse and yacca-studded slopes from my memory.

My only explanation – a mild case of PTSD.

Six years earlier and 8km further east, my thru-hike was nearly terminated in a receptionless grazing paddock. Hurdling over my millionth stile of the trail, my ankle buckled on dismount, twisting under the weight of my body and backpack.

Mercifully, the agony eased enough to bear weight, and I glacially resumed along the fence line.

This swollen, achy appendage had lingered for weeks beyond 2018’s finish line, but its relayed amnesiac effects had lasted until my Fleurieu return.

As day three progressed, I regained my bearings. Unsurprisingly so. A dozen mangled limbs couldn’t erase the memory of Tunkalilla Beach’s striking white sands or Balquhidder Hill’s lung-busting incline.

Following my tuna and rice cracker confetti lunch, the track diverted inland, soon arriving at the stile that had caused all the problems. Taking a moment, I forgivingly tapped its fastened trail marker and moved on.

My Happiest Place

Day four at Kurri Ngawanthi/Creek Campground, formerly Balquidder Campsite, unfolded in stark contrast to the bee-infested sauna that hazed day 57 of my thru-hike.

This time around, the creekside campground delivered a lustrous sunrise, growing steadily from the valley’s gums. I peeled back the tent vestibule and watched night fade from the comfort of my increasingly down-less sleeping bag.

My morning amble along country lanes and cow-pat-strewn pastures provided a gentle stretch for hamstrings that hadn’t acclimatised to the trail’s multi-day demands. The guiding fence line soon billowed and plunged toward the coastal cliffs, my breaths deepening, allowing the sea spray to penetrate my lungs.

I flashed back to the first time this salt-tipped breeze met my nostrils in 2018. After almost two months of blood, sweat, and mud I could finally smell the ocean.

I freed my backpack and just sat, reminiscing, invigorated, and revelling in the misty spray.

A gormless grin crawled across my face as I crossed the blustery shores of Parsons and Waitpinga Beaches. I realised my mind had slowed to a step-by-step rhythm, released from the urgency of emails, bills, and office politics.

I felt more, experienced more, and saw more through long-distance eyes; my thoughts were purer, my presence more authentic. I had entered my happiest place – a state only accessible over extended distances, distant from distractions.

I arrived at Natunyuru Ngawanthi/Sand Dunes Campground mid-afternoon with renewed mindfulness, fresh ideas, and an exquisite shin-high sock tan.

The End of the Beginning

After watching daybreak from bed the previous morning, I was determined to rise with the sun on the final walk into Victor Harbor. Newland Head Conservation Park contains the peninsula’s most photogenic headlands; I wanted to see these corrugated beauties in their best light.

As morning’s lustre penetrated the clifftop heath, my final epiphany simultaneously dawned. Multi-day hikes generate reflection and introspection, but epic long-distance excursions activate long-lasting change.

Five days on the WSCW had untethered me from the everyday, clearing my headspace for a thoughtful, mindful, and appreciative hike along the Fleurieu’s stunning seascape.

Whereas hundreds of Heysen Trail kilometres had delivered a physical, mental, and emotional revolution, shedding years of accumulated fears, limitations, and preconceptions.

It’s rare to have these kinds of revelations without dedicating years to thought-modifying routines. Thru-hikes have a way of accelerating self-evaluation, with life lessons lingering on your return.

Since transitioning back to a steady, full-time office environment, these core learnings have faded, perhaps obscured by the trivialities of privilege or the passing of time. But I know they’re there – I’ve lived them.

It’s time to revisit my Heysen Trail lessons. I need another long-distance trail.