Bivvying in the wilds of Tasmania

From a forgotten Hunka to discovering the Elan, this is a story of bivvy camping, remote trails, and Tasmania’s wild mountains and forests.

The decision to leave Orkney, my island home in the North, and relocate to Tasmania, my island home in the South, was by no means a quick one. Both have myriad draws, largely owing to their natural pulchritude, stiff winds, and wildlife (apropos, the whisky in both places is very good indeed). After a stint of horses and hiking in Central America en route, I arrived, and the transition has been relatively smooth. Smooth, that is, until I realized a major blunder: in a storage container on the edge of the North Sea, I had left my camping gear — including my most invaluable companion, my Hunka Bivy. We have shared over a decade together, soft-bedded on four continents. Egad and botheration!

To travel to the largest temperate wilderness in the Southern Hemisphere, with the oldest living trees (and some of the biggest), geology and forests that predate most of the world's mountains, and a true sense of wilderness and remoteness — without my Hunka — seemed catastrophic. Until the Elan appeared in my life. After over ten years of sleeping in my beloved Hunka Bivvy, I finally found myself under the stars with a different piece of kit.

I have long made the case for bivvys. I first dragged a heavy, oversized army-surplus canvas one up a hill back in the 1990s and realized what tent life was missing: being amidst nature. The stars above, nocturnal critters all around. The joy of being woken by inquisitive badgers rooting under leaves, the gentle thrum of hawking bats overhead, and the occasional rustle of unseen creatures scuttling through the undergrowth is irreplaceable. For those who haven’t tried it and may find the idea unnerving, stick with it: you never have to wonder what that rustling outside the tent is, if you are outside the tent as well — and it is astonishing how bold a badger can be when one is eye-to-eye.

Summer in Tasmania has finally arrived with the new year — a little like the North of Scotland, our summers can be sheepish and capricious. We even had snow here on Christmas Day (summer, mind you). Such weather must be tackled head-on, however, as the hope of fair-weather hiking on this island can be foolhardy. And so it begins: with the Elan in tow, we head for the mountains and trails, waterfalls, and rainforests of this wild island.

A wonderful introduction to Tasmania’s wilds is Wellington Park, on the western edge of the state capital, Hobart. Sprawling across some 18,000 hectares, it is the city’s rugged backyard. One can walk directly off city streets into a landscape where mountains, endemic plants, and unique wildlife converge in near-pristine isolation. Eagles wheel over massive dolerite cliffs, while devils and echidnas scavenge under ancient tree copses, and badgers creep through the undergrowth as though checking that humans still know their place. Its proximity to home allows for complete immersion in this landscape — and yet still return for scones and afternoon tea. But the question lingers… why would you? I have a camping stove, I have my bivvy, and I refuse to come indoors tonight.

Peak bagging in Tasmania is another matter entirely, and it will give any Munroist a run for their money. Tasmania only has 158 ‘Abels’, as opposed to Scotland’s 282 Munros. By definition, however, the Abels are higher (1,100 m vs 914 m / 3,000 ft), wilder, and far more remote, with most requiring multi-day hikes and camping out. Slopping through mud to the waist in horizontal rain and snow is par for the course in Scottish peak bagging, but in Tasmania, add in the occasional venomous snake, sunburn, and days of walking to the nearest road — and the gauntlet has been well and truly thrown down.

So much adventure awaits. And with the Elan by the front door, the option — and temptation — of a night under the stars is effortless, as simple as a river’s course. One only has to open the bivvy, and the world, complete with its devils, bats, and whispering treetops, is waiting.