When I set out on my first round-the-world trip, my journey took me to New Zealand, where I did my first real island hike on Stewart Island. That experience stuck with me so vividly that I can still smell the damp earth and the wild scent of nature — and, to be honest, the mud I trudged through.
Somewhere along that trip, someone told me excitedly about Tasmania — a magnificent island south of mainland Australia. Even as I listened, I had the feeling that this idea wouldn’t let me go. As soon as I was back in civilisation and home again, I began planning my next journey — to Tasmania.
I didn’t just want to travel; I wanted to walk — far and deep into Tasmania’s wilderness. Back home, I started training, carrying a thirty-kilo pack for hours through forests and over hills for weeks and months, getting used to the weight, the slow rhythm, and the sense that everything I needed was right there on my back. I had no idea then that my pack would later weigh quite a bit more.
When I finally arrived in Tasmania, the island hit me with full force. The air was crisp, the forests felt ancient and untamed, and the landscapes — gentle, rugged, and beautiful all at once — left me in awe. I felt small, yet completely alive.
Talking with other travellers, I soon heard about the leeches said to be lurking everywhere along the Overland Track — my big goal. I shrugged off the warnings. How bad could it really be?
The famous Overland Track, Tasmania’s legendary long-distance trail, was planned for ten days. But I intended to continue straight into the Walls of Jerusalem National Park afterwards. Altogether, I expected to be on the move for two to three weeks. So I packed everything I needed — and plenty I probably didn’t, just to be safe.
When I finally weighed my pack, the scale showed a staggering forty-seven kilograms. I could hardly believe it, but giving up wasn’t an option. I decided to start slowly — just four hours a day — until my body grew stronger.
Eventually, I reached the start of the Overland Track, and the day I set off became one of the most beautiful moments of my journey. I strapped on my pack, felt its weight settle on my shoulders, and knew: this was it. The first few hours led me through a valley once ravaged by fire. You could see how the land had recovered — the old life was gone, but new life had already taken its place. Among soft ferns, young grass and quiet open spaces, nature had reclaimed its strength. It was a quiet, powerful reminder of its resilience — and I felt as though I was walking right through its heartbeat.
The trail rose gently, and I made good progress. After four hours I reached a small lake surrounded by tall grass. It was still, peaceful — perfect for my first camp. I pitched my tent, cooked a simple meal, and relaxed inside. Then I noticed blood on my skin. Confused, I looked closer — five leeches had attached themselves to me. A shiver ran through me. I’d read about how to remove them, but facing them in the moment was something else entirely. It took me a while to get rid of them.
When I looked outside, I saw more leeches crawling over the outer tent. The thought of sleeping in that grass made my blood run cold. I packed everything in a rush, checked every strap and shoe, and headed for the next hut in the fading light. I was glad to leave that behind — but new worries soon appeared. The trail climbed over a mountain pass — only about four hundred metres of elevation, but with nearly fifty kilos on my back, it felt like a mountain range.
To my surprise, I managed the ascent better than expected and finally reached the pass. But the descent was brutal — steeper, slippery, and full of fallen trees I had to crawl under, often on my stomach. After each obstacle, I had to hoist my heavy pack back onto my shoulders. When I finally reached the hut, exhaustion hit me all at once. I’d been walking for nine hours and felt completely drained.
The night brought little rest. My body was sore, and even in the morning, every movement hurt. I forced myself up and decided to aim for a shorter stage. Early in the day, I set off — unsure how far I’d get, but glad to be moving again.
Soon I realised things were going better than I’d expected. The track remained demanding, but I’d found my rhythm again. I balanced along narrow boardwalks and fallen logs, dodged snakes, laughed at my clumsy steps, and felt alive despite the effort.
That evening I reached another hut, already full, so I pitched my tent beside it. Without the heavy pack, I felt light as a feather and decided on a whim to climb a nearby hill. The view from the top took my breath away — golden light spilling over the valleys, silence humming in the air. In that moment, everything felt perfect.
When I returned to my tent, I ate quickly and lay down to sleep. Thunder rolled soon after, lightning flashing through the trees. It was intense enough — but then came something worse. Painful muscle cramps shot through my legs, so strong they brought tears to my eyes. I could barely move. Despite all my experience from years of swimming, I couldn’t get them under control. Then I remembered the muscle ointment I carried — horse liniment, my last resort. I inched over to my pack, found the tube, and rubbed it into my legs. Within minutes, the cramps eased, like air leaving a knotted balloon. I lay there breathing deeply, exhausted but relieved.
Just as I drifted off again, I heard a rustle. Something was moving inside the tent. I opened my eyes — and stared straight into two large, shining eyes. A possum. My heart skipped a beat. It looked at me — cheeky, curious — and I realised what it wanted: my food. I waved my torch, and it bolted through the hole it had chewed in the inner tent to get in. I quickly grabbed my food bag and carried it to the hut, where the other hikers had hung theirs. Only then did peace return, and I fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.
From that night on, everything seemed easier. Rain came, wind howled, but I felt strong and calm. No more leeches, no more cramps — just the steady crunch of my boots and the whisper of the wilderness. Along the way, I met other hikers — some laughing, some weary. One woman told me she’d had a leech in her mouth, a young bloke even in a place you wouldn’t want to imagine. I was grateful I’d got off lightly.
Each day my pack grew lighter, my stride steadier, my mind clearer. Toward the end, I met hikers turning back because of the constant rain. They gave me all their leftover food — generous souls, even as they ended their own journeys. My pack got heavier again, but this time, I didn’t mind. I was strong, grounded, filled with quiet contentment.
When I finally stood at Cradle Mountain, looking back over the wild heart of Tasmania, I knew these days would stay with me forever. I hadn’t just crossed the island’s magnificent landscapes — I’d crossed something within myself.