The clear night sky allowed the cold to creep to the ground.  A lone man pulls his coat tighter around his torso and nears the blazing fire to keep the chill from his bones.  One more swill of the warm tea and then the prospector retires to his swag to rest for the arduous journey ahead.

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The sun has only just broken the horizon.  All around, an early morning mist cloaks the land in a white veil.  The golden rays of the sun seemed to dance merrily through the thin shroud of mist and the surrounding trees providing a mystic light show.  The sun growing stronger with its ascent to the heavens offered little to take the chill from the morning air. 

The raucous laugh of a nearby kookaburra shatters the early morning quiet.  Soon after, Currawongs and other birds add to the morning gaiety of bird songs.  Little finches dart in and out of the campsite.  The bird life in the area was prolific.

For some time before the sunrise, there had been movement in the camp.  A fire boils the billy and provides the only warmth.  The prospector seems oblivious to the natural beauty as he prepares for the day's journey.  He bundles up his kit - food, tools, swag and clothing, and secures it in the oilskins with leather straps.  Preparation is well underway to continue his journey. 

The small fire flickered as the orange-yellow flames consumed the last of the twigs.  A flume of smoke curls skywards only to vanish into the surrounding mist.  The smell of smoke and recently cooked bacon and damper hangs in the air mingling with the aromas of the eucalyptus and the rotting vegetation that littered the ground. 

After packing the last of his possessions, the traveller wrestled his knapsack onto his shoulders.  His knees seemed to buckle slightly from the weight.  He adjusted the straps to set the pack more comfortably on his back.  He picks up his musket slinging it over his shoulder, calls his trusty dog, and takes the first step of the day’s journey. 

By late morning, the sun had burnt away the last veil of mist and the sun’s warming rays were a welcomed relief from the chill of the morning.  Before him, blue skies promised good conditions for the day’s journey.  The sun had passed its daily zenith, and its rays seemed to burn the land.  Perspiration now soaked the traveller’s clothes.  He stopped by a babbling stream and drank from its refreshingly chilly waters.  He wiped his brow and pressed on to take advantage of the fair weather.

The bush was dense, dark and at times, depressing.  The floor of the bush was thick with fallen trees, lush vegetation including the wretched slender tree commonly known as Horizontals so named because of its growth pattern, large moss-covered rocks all of which had to be navigated through, over, under or around.  Travelling in a straight line was impossible.  Moisture seemed to drip from every plant, a legacy of the seemingly never-ending rain that falls in the west coast region. 

The untamed, uncompromising bush gives way to open button grass plains.  To his eyes, a welcomed respite from the scrub.  He ventures on feeling a little more optimistic about his journey.  However, the respite he had hoped for is short lived.  The button grass plains while looking like an easy walking route are treacherous marshy flats pitted with mud holes ankle deep or more between the springy tussocks of grass.  A few kilometres of walking in this terrain is both tedious and demanding on the walker’s legs particularly the ankles and tendons.

On his back, his heavy canvas pack weighing more than 50 pounds cuts into his shoulders.  This discomfort does not seem to deter him. 

By mid-afternoon, wispy clouds streaked across the sky partially concealing the sun and the sky.  As the day drew near its end, the clouds thickened.  A cooling breeze took some of the heat from the sun’s sting.  His damp clothes caused him to shiver.

The sun was low in the sky, and the weary traveller made camp for the night on the banks of a tannin-stained stream.  From his pack, he took a sturdy rope and tied it between two stout trees.  Over the rope, he threw a square piece of canvas and staked its corners into the ground.  Under the canvas shelter, he rolled out his swag.  He watched nature painted the skies as the sun receded into the night.  The reddish pink glow of the evening clouds heralded a change in the weather. 

He fills his billy with the tannin-stained waters of the stream and hangs it over the fire.  As the billy boils, the prospector prepares the evening meal – a piece of salted beef, a couple of onions and damper.

In the evening, the bush seemed to come alive; wallabies, wombats, possums, Tasmanian devils, and Thylacines commence their nocturnal wanderings to feed.  It would have been an unnerving feeling for the bush novice to hear the snarls of the devils fighting over a piece of carrion, the rustling of the nearby shrub as a wombat rummage for the tastiest grasses, or the thumps of a wallaby hopping in the bush.

Sipping the hot tea, he settles back against the trunk of a tall gum and reflects on his journey, a journey that started seven days ago from near Lake St Clair.  Bush, he chuckles to himself, the jungle is more like it.  At times, the scrub was so thick it took him half a day to travel a mile.  His labours to hack his way through bauera vines, horizontals and cutting grass, were heartbreaking.  His blistered hands and ragged clothes, evidence of the ardours endured on this trek. 

During the night, the rain began to fall.  The drops of water seemed to crash into the canvas as a drummer would beat his drum.  The heavy thuds made it difficult to sleep.  The prospector’s rudimentary shelter offered little protection against the elements.  All he could do was pull his swag around his head to shield him from the elements.

The rain did not abate with the dawning of the new day.  Everything was drenched; water seemed to cascade off every leaf of every tree.  The laden skies looked menacing, but they did not reveal the conditions ahead.  The prospector threw on his oilskin cape to protect him from the elements.  The heavy cape did not slow the water soaking him.

The breeze that had been rustling the trees for most of the morning gradually increased in strength.  In the treetops above, the wind roars like the ocean’s waves pounding a beach.  Suddenly, the wind engulfs the entire bush lashing at the trees with merciless force.  The prospector leaned into the wind but struggled to make headway.  The giant trees groaned and creaked from the onslaught of the cold southerly winds.  The roar of the winds was deafening.  Without warning, one of the forest’s giants snaps midway up its trunk.  The bush reverberates from the crack of the splintering wood. 

The storm passed almost as quickly as it arrived.  Slowly the clouds part to allow the sun to stream through.

From the plains, the prospector climbed steadily to the saddle of a mountain approximately 1,000 metres in height.  The magnificent scenery was breathtaking although the beauty of the region was lost on the prospector.  To the north, another mountain loomed above, while below a river wound itself through a deep valley of myrtle.  Descending into the valley through dense virgin myrtle forests proved exhausting.

At last, he comes to a stream that shows promise.  Working from dawn to dusk, he endures the frugal conditions and the rigours of his labours and harsh environs.  He also accepts the lack of human companionship – his faithful dog his only companion in the wilds.  Alone, he works at the riverbank.  Standing in the shallows, the cool water eddies around his boots.  With rough and calloused hands, he fills pan after pan with dirt from the streambed.  His hands deftly swirl the water in a flat pan.  Searching the gritty sludge, his keen eyes scan for the elusive sign of the fortune he seeks – the shimmer of the yellow metal - gold.

​

 

 

 

Abel Jansz Tasman first sighted the rugged West Coast of Tasmania in 1641.  His ships were pushed eastwards by the winds of the Roaring 40s – a blustery airstream that crosses the Indian Ocean from west to east.  Tasman did not land on the west coast, as he was unable to find a safe landing point.  He continued on his voyage finally landing at Adventure Bay on Bruny Island.

For over 150 years after Tasman’s sighting, the west coast of Tasmania remained a few lines on the world map.

In 1798, Bass and Flinders circumnavigated the island in their tiny vessel “New Norfolk”.  These intrepid explorers charted the coastline.  Bass and Flinders also did not land on the inhospitable west coast.

In December 1815, Captain James Kelly sailed his open whaleboat ‘Elizabeth’ into Port Davey a haven of safe-water in the southwest of Tasmania.  Kelly sailed northwards and passed through the notorious Hell’s Gates to discover the tranquil waters of Macquarie Harbour.  According to Binks, the discovery of Port Davey and Macquarie Harbour was “the most important single step in the exploration of western Tasmania before the mineral discoveries over fifty years later.”

Through the early 1820s, almost the entire western half of Tasmania remained unmapped and unexplored as illustrated by the Surveyor General’s maps of the day.  All land features on the maps of the day ended at the central highlands.  The region 60 to 70 miles between the west coast and the central highlands and between the Bass Strait and the Southern Ocean was a mysterious wonderland of rocky mountains, deep valleys, wild and often raging rivers, dense and beautiful bush.

The west coast is renowned for its wild oceans and even wilder weather.  The Trade Winds known as the Roaring Forties frequently batter the coastline after a journey of thousands of kilometres across the Southern Ocean.  Within a few hours, the weather can vent its fury changing a mild, pleasant day into a raging tangle of bitterly cold winds, torrential rain, and sleet; even snow at times.  The rainfall over the western mountains ranges between 1,500 and 2,500 millimetres per year.

The regions within the southwest of Tasmania and many parts along the west coast are still remote and wilderness areas through which only a few have trodden the ground and some areas still unexplored.  Some would argue that the west coast region of Tasmania has never been tamed.