I'd set off from Tharwa with no real training plan, no performance tracker, and certainly no intention of breaking any records. But somewhere between the quiet ACT ridgelines and the long solo days in the NSW wilderness, I started pushing harder. I was hiking 38 to 50 km days through the opening sections of the Australian Alps Walking Track (AAWT), and I realized I was moving fast.
Somewhere around Kiandra, I did the maths. If I kept up this pace, I might just be able to take the fastest known time for completing the AAWT – unofficially, of course, but I believed the mark sat somewhere around the 21 to 23 day mark. And just like that, I was no longer on a hike. I was on a mission.
Each day became a push. I carried a full pack and moved relentlessly. I wasn’t training beforehand, not properly. Just a bit of hiking with a pack. No strength work, no mobility, no preparation for the punishment my knees were about to endure.
By the time I reached Whites River Hut, nestled on the main range before the long rise to the Rolling Ground and Mount Kosciuszko beyond, I was well ahead of schedule. A storm rolled through as I brewed a coffee in the hut. I could have stopped there. I should have.
But the sky cleared, and I thought, "Why not get up to Schlink's Pass? Push a bit closer to the new goal. Camp further along. Keep moving."
Six kilometers further, it started again. Rain. Hard.
I was off-track, half-confident in my navigation at best. Thunder cracked overhead. Flash to bang: three seconds. The ground rumbled under my soaked trail shoes. I dropped into lightning position, shivering, heart pounding.
Then, as quickly as it came, it cleared. I started walking again.
Maybe 500 meters later, another wave rolled in. And that’s when I wondered if the "Rolling Ground" was named for the undulating terrain or the way the storms came crashing in one after another, like waves rolling across the sky. The tussock grass and ankle-deep puddles reflected each other so perfectly I couldn’t tell what was solid and what would swallow my boot. My knees buckled more than once under the wet pack weight. My right knee especially took the hit.
The storm no longer broke. It just stayed. Rain. Endless rain. Cold seeped into my bones. I was shivering uncontrollably.
I had to get warm.
I found a cluster of boulders and rigged my bivvy using pegs and my fork as trad gear to create some tension. It took me 30 minutes with frozen hands, but I got inside, layered up in my puffy, and crawled into my sleeping bag.
It didn’t last.
Forty minutes later, water was dripping into my down bag. The bivvy had been breached. I knew the saddle I planned to camp in would be a swamp. The storm wasn’t letting up. Now that I was warm and thinking clearly, I knew what I had to do: go back.
Every step sent pain through my knee. I limped through the storm back to Whites River Hut.
When I opened the door, the group inside looked stunned. "We nearly called for help," someone said. "We didn't think anyone could survive out there."
The next morning, my knee was swollen to the point of barely bending. I hobbled down to Guthega Power Station, grateful beyond words for my walking sticks. From there I hitched into Cooma and learned I’d torn my meniscus.
A few days later, fires swept through the region.
And in a strange, twisted way, I was lucky. Lucky I’d pushed hard. Lucky I’d gotten injured. Lucky I had to evacuate.
I didn’t finish the AAWT that year (2020). But what I gained in perspective, pain, and raw, wild experience was something no finish line or record could offer.
Alps... I'll be back! This time stronger and more prepared - and I won't be in such a hurry this time.
- Gemma, Wyld.
