Walking Tasmania's Overland Track - An artist's perspective.
One of my favourite activities is bush-walking. For non-Australians, this might be translated as hiking or tramping but what it should NEVER be compared with is ‘a stroll in the park’.
Ideally, a bush-walk should involve at least some of the following: A degree of huff and puff with an undeniable beading of sweat; Views along the way - preferably culminating in views from a mountain-top; Getting out of earshot of man-made sounds like traffic, podcasts and playlists; A plethora of trees, rocks, lakes and tarns; Good company to enjoy it all with.
In my opinion, the best bush-walks are those that include all of the above, but step things up to include overnight camping in hard-to-reach wilderness areas, where the air is pure, the vistas never-ending and the stars shine with a brightness that could make a diamond-cutter weep with envy.
Given this, it should come as no surprise that when my overseas cousin, Claire decided she simply HAD to trek Tasmania’s iconic Overland Track, I fervently supported the idea. A 65km, multi-day hike from Cradle Mountain to Lake St Claire through UNESCO World Heritage Wilderness areas, it had long been on my Grand To Do List. With Claire and my older sister Ingrid on board, the ‘Good Company’ box was also well and truly ticked.
We were late to book our place on this very popular, self-guided hiking adventure, and could only secure a spot on the track in early May. The Central Highlands of Tasmania have extremely unpredictable weather, even in the Summer months, so I hoped we weren’t going to be hit with howling gales and sideways sleet. As it turned out, we were gifted with the most extraordinary week-long window of still, sunny days. Even the track rangers were shaking their heads in disbelief at our good fortune as we set off, packs laden with emergency wet weather gear that was never going to see the light of day.
The other stunning advantage to planning our Overland Track adventure at this time of year was being witness to the turning of the Nothofagus gunnii (deciduous beech tree) leaves. Endemic to the highlands of Tasmania, these are the only native deciduous trees in Tasmania, and we were walking amongst them as they put on an autumnal show of glory like it was nobody’s business. It was more than enough to make my usually eucalyptus-focussed gaze shift as we passed between groves of them on our daily treks.
Another benefit that presented itself along the way was the lack of phone reception. Even at the top of the few mountain peaks I climbed along the way, our remoteness and my crummy service provider ensured that I was never going to be distracted by pings and pop ups. Initially it was vaguely disconcerting, but I soon grew to love how fully immersed and present it allowed me to be. I could be connected to nature and truly engaged with the people I was with, without ever being drawn away to respond to an email or nut out a business issue.
As a nature painter I was processing a heck of a lot of inspiration every day. The quiet moments out on the track let my mind wander and gave room for ideas to germinate.
There was SO much to see and take in. I wished I could stop to draw and paint on the hour, every hour we were out there, but as I soon discovered, you need light and energy to paint. With Daylight Saving hours well and truly over, and a walking pace that wasn’t breaking any records, often we would saunter (okay, stagger) into the huts just before dusk and there simply wasn’t the opportunity to pull out my paint palette.
To begin with, I felt disappointed about this. Having made a very lightweight painting kit, I’d headed into the Overland Track with visions of walking out with every sketchbook page filled with studies of all the scenes and objects I’d encountered on my epic adventures. Looking back, I can see that it was a good thing I didn’t get to do this. Having just been neck-deep in preparations for my Painting the Past exhibition the month before, I needed to wipe the slate clean and clear my head. A week in the wilderness away from it all - even painting - was a great way to do this.
So, what were my key lessons from this Tasmanian bush-walking experience?
If you paint nature, get out into it
Not necessarily to recreate it, but simply to experience it. Then you can allow that experience to inform how and what you paint in future.
The most satisfying experiences usually come after you’ve put in the training and done some hard work
Sounds cliché, but it’s true of any skills-based experience. With an 18.5kg pack on my back, I was glad I’d done some hill-climbing with all my gear in tow during the weeks leading up to our departure. It made a discernible difference to how much I could enjoy it.
Reflecting on this, I wondered at the sorts of things I could be training at and practicing to make my painting experiences more effortless and enjoyable. Drawing from life, and playing experimentally with tools and materials are two areas I hit upon that would be worth ‘training at’ in my art practice.
Make time to do hard stuff with the people you love.
I have a personal motto to counter-act my natural introverted inclinations to just hole up and paint all the time: Put People over Painting.
Of course, every artist needs solitude to do their job, but long-term hermit life can really hollow a person out.
Giving time to others and spending time with the people I care about fills my bucket.
Sweating up mountains for days in a row; Swimming in the freezing waters of highland lakes; Cooking over a gas stove by the light of a head torch before crawling into a sleeping bag alongside Claire, Ingrid, 11 other people we’d only just met and more than 11 hungry mice, is one of those unforgettable, shared experiences that forge friendships for life.
Needless to say, my bucket runneth over and newfound creative juices are definitely flowing.
Do you have your own iconic walk / Overland Track experiences you could share? What activities do you like to do to recharge and refresh? Let me know!
Until next time –
