Day 3 (Tapanappa to Ballaparuda Creek) is an 18km grade-four bushwalk which the trailnotes describe as “picturesque” but which I describe (in the wet) as “too effing dangerous”.
We broke camp at Cliffs Campground and made our way up the bituminised road to Tappanappa, figuring (correctly) that we’d shave off the stupidly unnecessary “scenic” loop I mentioned the night before.
We were right, and followed a nice firetrail up to Pages Lookout where there were signs about endangered seals, whales, et cetera., but no view because of the rain.
Did I mention it was raining? Oh yes, was it raining!
It would rain all day non-stop.
From Pages we dipped into a “wet gully” before emerging suddenly onto a wide and windy headland with panoramic ocean views. We paused to take a bedraggled picture of yours-truly before starting down that muddy path.
The sign: “Warning! Steep and slippery descent!”
An understatement: the descent was so steep and so slippery that horror replaced joy as we rode the slip’n’slide precipitously down to Boat Harbor Beach.
At the bottom we hid under a meagre tarp to eat lunch — hot soup — knowing that over the next headland was an even greater challenge:
a 4.5km beach walk,
a hideous climb,
and then a 7.5km slog across paddocks and firetrails to camp.
We had 12km to go and it was already past midday. The conditions had slowed us to a crawl, so my limping son and I would arrive well after dark at Creek Campground.
After dark?
With temps in single digits, the savage wind, our saturated state and near-exhaustion, I did what I do for a living. I risk-assessed.
“This is getting bad. Tell me if you want to pull the pin”, I said. My son nodded. For both of us it had stopped being fun.
Then it got worse.
Crossing the headland (sample above) between Boat Harbour Beach and Tunkallilla Beach was the most dangerous thing I have done as a bushwalker.
Google will tell you that nobody does the Wild South Coast Way in mid-winter during a Severe Weather Alert.
This traverse was no ‘Coupla hills with a quick beach swim thrown in “Ooh, look at the dolphins daddy!“‘ sorta thing. No. It was a risky proposition from the start and was now trying to kill us.
Even the highly-endangered Hooded Plovers stood a better chance of survival.
But it was Tunkalilla Beach where my son snapped.
Almost crying with relief at making it to the beach, we found ourselves needing to cross five creeks in full torrent flowing into the ocean. Maybe he’d managed to preserve dry feet; but after the first wade, “This is bullshit” was my normally-amiable son’s assessment.
“It is what it is!” I replied perkily, trying to remain positive, and splishing wetly on to the next one.
After almost 5km of sandy fun we collapsed into an alcove under a limestone cliff at the end of the beach, where the Pocket Rocket delivered yet another warming brew.
Water dripped off baby stalagtites onto our gloves, knees, coffee mugs. We drank rainwater tinged coffee in dripping silence.
Then, the infamous climb up from Tunkalilla Beach.
Now do the math for me. If you ascend 110 vertical metres in 300 metres, then the incline is … degrees?
Don’t forget the slip-n-slide. When I made it to the top, my son didn’t cheer “Well done dad, that was hard!” nor chortle “So funny when you slid halfway back down the hill!”
He said “Dad, this is too dangerous”.
Look at the map again. See the highest point on the right? That’s still 4km shy of Creek Campground, and it is where we stopped at 3pm.
I will always remember the moment.
This is where defeat, despair and desperation transcended into triumph and tranquility. Here, at the intersection of two dirt roads on a hilltop in the middle of nowhere, I pulled out my fully-charged iPhone and switched it on.
“Two bars” I said.
“Thank God” replied my son.
So I called a taxi, and we went home.