We arose to the gentle sounds of nature – the warbling crying of the lesser spotted Furtwangler and the visceral rhythm of Dave coughing up his guts. The young couple had already packed up and gone and we decided to follow suit not long after. The biggest challenge was the tide, which was quite high and we knew we’d have to clamber over rocks now, rather than walking along the beach.
The Thorsborne Trail which we were following is certainly a marked route, but it’s fair to say there are times it takes a little finding, especially with the tide in. Eventually we found what we were looking for and clambered up a steep hill.
As the trail seemed to peter in and out of existence we decided we’d been following a trail, blazed by some poor misguided fools, to nowhere, so we turned back. After some debate we took a more coastal route – much rockier. Again after several clamber-filled minutes we decided that perhaps the original route was the right one after all, so we rock-hopped our way back again – this time to really give the original route the going over.
Ten minutes later, after some good solid yakka we found ourselves surrounded by trees, though sadly the same could not be said for the trail which had truly ended deep in the scrub. They say perseverance pays off, but they are talking out of their arses. It was at this point, and not at the multitudinous more convenient earlier points (like the start, for example) that Paul decided it might just be useful to check the track notes. There, write large (possibly in six-foot letter of fire, possibly not) was fairly blunt advice about where the track was (which was exactly where we weren't). Some females might be tempted to say that this was typical male behaviour - failing to read the instructions before blunder in to the unknown. But that would be cruel. Factual, yes, but definitely cruel. So, back down we went again and tackled the coastal rocks yet again. This time we found the track and soldiered on.
It’s probably forgivable to take the wrong track every now and again, but to take the same wrong track twice (having bailed on the right track), with track notes in your backpack, well that’s just plain embarrassing.
Today was truly the hardest of the walks. It was long and there were plenty of bloody steep upwards climbs, liberally peppered with bloody steep downwards climbs. It seems that long arduous walks go through certain conversational stages are follows: Stage 1 – everybody chatting away; Stage 2 – conversation a little sparser but still upbeat; Stage 3 – telling jokes (this stage always finishing with a really bad joke); Stage 4 – outbursts of vague laughter as we try and recall what really was funny about the jokes; Stage 5 – silence, broken only by short, sharp expletives.
The Thorsborne Trail which we were following is certainly a marked route, but it’s fair to say there are times it takes a little finding, especially with the tide in. Eventually we found what we were looking for and clambered up a steep hill.
As the trail seemed to peter in and out of existence we decided we’d been following a trail, blazed by some poor misguided fools, to nowhere, so we turned back. After some debate we took a more coastal route – much rockier. Again after several clamber-filled minutes we decided that perhaps the original route was the right one after all, so we rock-hopped our way back again – this time to really give the original route the going over.
Ten minutes later, after some good solid yakka we found ourselves surrounded by trees, though sadly the same could not be said for the trail which had truly ended deep in the scrub. They say perseverance pays off, but they are talking out of their arses. It was at this point, and not at the multitudinous more convenient earlier points (like the start, for example) that Paul decided it might just be useful to check the track notes. There, write large (possibly in six-foot letter of fire, possibly not) was fairly blunt advice about where the track was (which was exactly where we weren't). Some females might be tempted to say that this was typical male behaviour - failing to read the instructions before blunder in to the unknown. But that would be cruel. Factual, yes, but definitely cruel. So, back down we went again and tackled the coastal rocks yet again. This time we found the track and soldiered on.
It’s probably forgivable to take the wrong track every now and again, but to take the same wrong track twice (having bailed on the right track), with track notes in your backpack, well that’s just plain embarrassing.
Today was truly the hardest of the walks. It was long and there were plenty of bloody steep upwards climbs, liberally peppered with bloody steep downwards climbs. It seems that long arduous walks go through certain conversational stages are follows: Stage 1 – everybody chatting away; Stage 2 – conversation a little sparser but still upbeat; Stage 3 – telling jokes (this stage always finishing with a really bad joke); Stage 4 – outbursts of vague laughter as we try and recall what really was funny about the jokes; Stage 5 – silence, broken only by short, sharp expletives.
It was on one of the downward sections that I proved to be quite a mountain goat – though sadly one of those mountain goats that are found dead at the foot of cliffs. A rock moved underfoot and I came crashing down. Fortunately, nothing was broken. I would demonstrate this dead-mountain-goat-like ability again later in the trip to prove it wasn’t just a fluke.
Along the way we met up with the two couples from Little Ramsey and the group of blokes that had passed through. The blokes did manage to rub us up the wrong way. Perhaps it was the way they indicated that this was just a doddle (they referred to it as a gentleman’s walk and then told us about all the other walks they had done) or perhaps it was the way they called us the entertainment when we arrived – either way we kindly put it down to them being a pack of knobs.
Because the tide was up we, along with the others, had to wait at North Zoe Creek – which was tidal, though the real clincher wasn’t so much the water as the fact that there could be crocs in it. Crocs are an amazingly effective disincentive to wading.
Once the river had dropped sufficiently we ploughed on to Zoe Bay and Zoe Falls. The beach there, and the scenery, were once again spectacular. This would turn out to be the most hiker-filled night of the walk as we met up with people coming in from the south. 22 people in all stayed at the campsite that night, though we had got in early and secured an isolated spot with its own table.
We settled down before taking a stroll up to Zoe Falls, which were really attractive. We even snuck in a fairly cool swim before we bunkered down for the night.
Again, bocce was off the radar courtesy of a dearth of coconuts – this time the group of blokes had cleaned up any in the vicinity to see what they could get out of them. Dysentery if we were lucky.
Along the way we met up with the two couples from Little Ramsey and the group of blokes that had passed through. The blokes did manage to rub us up the wrong way. Perhaps it was the way they indicated that this was just a doddle (they referred to it as a gentleman’s walk and then told us about all the other walks they had done) or perhaps it was the way they called us the entertainment when we arrived – either way we kindly put it down to them being a pack of knobs.
Because the tide was up we, along with the others, had to wait at North Zoe Creek – which was tidal, though the real clincher wasn’t so much the water as the fact that there could be crocs in it. Crocs are an amazingly effective disincentive to wading.
Once the river had dropped sufficiently we ploughed on to Zoe Bay and Zoe Falls. The beach there, and the scenery, were once again spectacular. This would turn out to be the most hiker-filled night of the walk as we met up with people coming in from the south. 22 people in all stayed at the campsite that night, though we had got in early and secured an isolated spot with its own table.
We settled down before taking a stroll up to Zoe Falls, which were really attractive. We even snuck in a fairly cool swim before we bunkered down for the night.
Again, bocce was off the radar courtesy of a dearth of coconuts – this time the group of blokes had cleaned up any in the vicinity to see what they could get out of them. Dysentery if we were lucky.
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