Wild and free—the South Coast Track

An expedition diary by Ella McGlashan
Introduction by Jimmy Cordwell; illustration above by Tilly Anderson.

Shuffling into Deadman’s Bay camp, the name felt so appropriate. I was completely exhausted, following the long-haul ten-hour crossing of the Ironbound Range. This was my ninth traverse of the range—and along this fantastic stretch of coast—and the fourth trip leading one of our Society’s BioBlitzes (a BioBlitz being a citizen science-led activity focused on documenting plants, animals and fungi in a targeted area: in this case, the threatened South Coast Track). 

This traverse was through dense cloud and horizontal snow. At times, my teammates faded away into the cloud cover and scorparia dominated bush only a few metres ahead of me. My energy depleted, I managed to slowly erect my tent on a moderately moist flat patch of Earth, said goodnight to the crew, and collapsed into bed as the cold finally got to me. I emerged 36 hours later into a sliver of sun, with six days still to go and the only option: to keep on walking. One of the team, Ella, wrote about our experience together: how the landscape and the life that calls it home brought us together, and what could be in store for its future.—Jimmy Cordwell

A diary from Ella McGlashan: Day one

Packed and ready, we drove to Cambridge. The plane I boarded had six passengers and one pilot.
Flying past Federation peak made me understand why it’s such a deadly place. In the words of Sir Edmund Hillary: “It’s Australia’s only real mountain.” 

I imagined the wind pushing us into its quartzite spire, and the plane being speared like a fish. Each turn and tilt made my stomach lurch. We could just fall out of the sky, I thought. After circling a valley surrounded by mountains, we thudded down to earth and sped along the white gravel runway.

Day two

Sunrise swim with a leopard seal
Beaches and leeches and mist-draped red hills
Like a cape covered in frills
Westerly winds
Sideways rain fills each ear
Keep walking to stop the chill
Set in, lunch mountainside
Mountain bread, ripped to shreds
Tuna from a packet and parmesan
Wet socks sheltered in wet boots
Bog dodgers, track braided, my hair matted
Are my hands getting tanned or just permanently dirty?

Day three 

Coastal walk, I’d thought. No need for alpine gloves. Then, traversing the Ironbounds we were hit by a blizzard—sideways hail, snow and the rescue chopper thundering past. Stranded between those ahead and the rest behind, I wondered whether it was one of us in the chopper. Fingers numb and fog obscuring the path, I thought if I die, I’m satisfied with my life—and what a dramatic place it would be to go. A mountain range rising from the sea, dusted with snow. Shimmering beaches below.

Hiking is when I’ve come closest to death. I’ve nearly drowned in the Gordon River and on the Overland I waded snow all day, making it to a hut as last light faded. Life in the city is a cocoon by comparison, help never far away. 

Arriving at Deadman’s Camp, we felt like dead men. The Ironbounds had punished us. I had hurt my knee on the final descent and Jimmy’s cold had gotten worse.

Day four

We decided to use our rest day. To pass time, Tilly suggested writing prompts; everyone gave a word to include. I wrote a saucy story—the words were: pinch, warm, wave, jacket, sedge. Embarrassed, I read it aloud.

That night, Luke got a bad burn. He was boiling water, but the pot tipped over onto his foot. He ripped off his sock, but the skin was already lifting off. Marlo tended his burns, morning and night, like a war nurse.

Day five

There was no choice but to limp on—nursing knee injuries, chest infections and second-degree burns. We documented everything we could: orchids, birdlife and noted the hut development sites.

Behind all our discomfort was an immense, perfect and endlessly breath-taking backdrop. The sounds of golden whistlers, waves crashing and quartzite crunching underfoot soothed my pain. A freak wave that tried to pull me and Jimmy out to sea. Dom took a picture, rather than helping us.

At the blank lagoon crossing we huddled under a tarp, waiting for the group ahead to finish with the boats. Luke and Fynn rowed me across; I felt like an Edwardian lady. I laughed uncontrollably at Fynn’s broken paddle and we went round in circles as a result, he yelled private school boy rowing chants and pretended to be in Pirates of the Caribbean. On the other side, morale was low, the driving wind and rain had defeated us and we decided to set up camp. Jimmy said he’d never seen the campsite so wet. I’d been still for so long that I’d gotten colder than I had in the blizzard. After setting up the tent, I crawled into bed with every layer of clothing I had but still couldn’t get warm. Dom cooked dinner and brought me a hot water bottle, and I finally started to defrost.

The next morning, we woke soaked. Right above the label on my tent floor boasting its waterproof rating, there was a puddle.

Day six

After the now well-practiced routine of porridge and tea, tooth brushing and tent pack-up, I finally had to face pulling on my cold wet socks and boots. The anticipation was the worst part, but once you start moving, they warm up quick.

From our stone Zen-garden campsite, we watched Fynn head out for abalone. He was finally getting to use the snorkel he’d had slung to his pack the entire way. He returned empty-handed in his underpants, and was borderline hypothermic.

I don’t have the skills to hunt my own food, lost in layers of industrialisation and modernisation. Replaced by packet-dehydrated food, gas stoves and lighters. Good on Fynn. We overcomplicate everything—high-tech, ultra-light gear, made on the other side of the planet, only to be shredded by a rat, hankering for your last bit of scroggin. Though thanks to RecipeTin Eats, the tradition of baking has not been lost. Dom’s homemade muesli bars were incredible. After a day’s walking we would crawl into bed and while munching them, show each other the day’s photos. Then I would read a chapter of my book aloud. Life doesn’t get much better than this.

Day seven

Cloud, Angel, Kelp

“Walk to the coast and when you come to the rock pools, head into the dunes,” said Mum, as she coughed into her handkerchief and patted my head. I cradled a small glass jar in one hand and her pencil-drawn map in the other. I rockhopped along the beach, my bare feet slipping on sheets of kelp.

At the rock pools, I pressed my fingers into the soft, sticky mouths of red sea anemones. I wiped my hands dry and climbed up the dunes. A narrow path wound through coastal wattle and led me to a driftwood shack. It was decorated with colourful buoys and rope. I knocked on the front door, but no one answered. As I bent down to leave the jar, I heard a low groan. I looked through the window and saw someone lying on a bed.

“Come in, the door’s open,” she said.

It creaked as I pushed it open. Inside, there were no walls to divide the single room. A blackened wood stove lent against one wall, in the centre was a small table and chair, and tucked in a corner, she lay in her single bed. Her eyes and mouth were pinched closed.

“Hello, Mum sent me,” I said.

She groaned and beckoned me to her side. I knelt by the bed. Her face was etched with deep wrinkles, skin dark and dotted with sunspots. She opened her eyes and smiled—cloudy blue. She pointed at her back.

“Would you be an angel and rub some of your mam’s ointment on Maude’s back?” She rolled onto her side and lifted her shirt a little way up. I unscrewed the lid and scooped some out.

It smelt bitter and familiar. I spread it with my small hands and rubbed it into her skin. I had watched my mother do it for visitors many times. Maude sighed, I screwed the lid back on. She rolled over and grinned at me.

“Thank you dear.”

Day eight

Bittersweet like orange peel. Could I keep walking forever? Do I have to go back to emails and petrol and fear? Where can I draw the finish line? Sand homebound in my boots, the landscape a porous membrane. I had sunk into my own footstep rhythm, but I was missing a few things: kisses, my garden, fresh carrots and lemon. The walk went in deep—months on, if I catch a whiff of bush smell or currawong’s call, I’m back. Walking the mud, on a buttongrass plain that stretches into the black, to the darkest night I’ll ever get. Starshine to remind me of creation. Our universe, planet and this body of mine. Take care of it, it takes care of us.

The proposed developments on the South Coast Track are facilitated by the Tasmanian Government’s Parks Privatisation policy. For over ten years this policy has actively encouraged development in places like the Tasmanian Wilderness World Heritage Area, most notably the Lake Malbena/Halls Island controversy that we and our allies have fought off on the state and national stages for a decade. 

The plans to develop the South Coast Track were recently sold to a new owner, Intrepid Tourism. We’re getting mixed messages on what the future of the track could be: Intrepid are publicly known for their long-standing and well-publicised environmental credentials and commitment to responsible tourism. Yet recent (9 February) correspondence was received by the Tasmanian government from the proponents, advising that it is intended that the South Coast Track Huts Walk will still continue to be progressed. Mixed messages from the government and developers, but clear from ourselves: the plans to develop the South Coast Track need to be scrapped now, as does the parks privatisation process which makes it all possible.

Our BioBlitzes have been documenting the natural values—focusing on endemic, rare and threatened species—all along the track, with focus on the proposed development sites. But, it also gives young Tasmanians a chance to experience and build a special relationship with this wild and remote corner of the continent, creating unstoppable advocates in the process. It’s not just a crucial part of our campaigns—watching the creativity and drive from our BioBlitzers remains one of the most rewarding experiences of my time with the Wildos.—Jimmy Cordwell

Watch a short film by Marlo of the expedition to the South Coast wilderness below, plus tackle the South Coast Track yourself with the Wilderness Society's walking guide. 

Postcards from a life celebrating the wild

Bill Doyle has worked alongside the Wilderness Society South Australia for more than 25 years on wilderness protection, frequently in the role of photographer. Here, he shares images from his archive and the stories behind seven historic South Australian conservation wins. 

Photographs by Bill Doyle. As told to Meg Bauer. 

“Bill Doyle has photographically documented our wilderness expeditions and community events for over a generation. Such a valuable archive and important contribution.”
—Peter Owen, Director of Wilderness Society South Australia

"Like waking up!"

When I was eight, I went to Woomera—back when Woomera was still a restricted area and you had to have a permit to go in there. I was staying with my great-uncle, who was a fairly eccentric character, and we went out in his Kombi, into the gibber country north of Woomera—we are talking seriously nowhere here. 

And I remember: we approached one red dune, which also had sort of gibbery, red rock material on it. All I can describe it is: it's like waking up. 

Like, you suddenly go: oh, hang on, I'm really here—I'm really in this place. And this is amazing. You know: this is just such an extraordinary place: the sky's really blue, the rocks are really red. There were all these green (what I now know were) Dodonaea on this dune... And it was just fabulous. 

Then, a couple of years later, I was walking through Belair—as I grew up next to the Belair National Park—in the hills, on a beautiful day, and the ‘waking up’ experience happened again. When I was eight, it sort of happened and then went away. When I was 10, it happened and then never really left.

I've seen it described as alpha states, or the oceanic feeling—things like that. It's such an essential part of who I am. I know that if I spend too much time in the city, and too much time getting overwrought about stuff, I need to go and be in nature for a while: to just reset and re-establish my way.

The engagement with nature has always been huge for me. Growing up next to the Belair National Park, I just spent every weekend out there—Mum essentially just gave up on trying to know exactly where I was. It was: just be home for dinner. And I was off, biking around the park with mates. That was just completely formative for me.

But I will also say that in my day job, because I run a local native nursery, just being in there is great, around all these seedlings. I mean, it's quite possibly because I’m inhaling significant amounts of oxygen as well!

I've been running a revegetation program for 25 years in the northern suburbs of Adelaide. We do projects of our own, but we also do a community revegetation program for rural property owners, and we distributed the 300,000th seedling last year. 

It’s important work, but I want to see the full protection of all large, intact functioning ecosystems that remain. As much protection as we can—particularly from the oil and gas industry. It seems insane to me that in the era of global warming any of that is still happening. I also would like to see more people working on this stuff.

 1. Vulkathunha-Gammon Ranges

The first time I really got involved in the Wilderness Society was during the campaign to remove a mining company from the Vulkathunha-Gammon Ranges National Park. At the time, BHP was selling a lease it held inside the park (!) to a small-time mining outfit—the money it stood to make wouldn’t even be a rounding error for BHP. A mining truck route was being proposed through the Weetootla Gorge, through to a pool that happened to be the only home of the purple-spotted gudgeon, and an open-cut magnesite mine was to be created adjacent to it.

I’ve been using a camera for forever, but it was during the Gammon that I started taking photos of the area specifically to get people to understand what they stood to lose. At the time, it was seriously remote—and it’s hard to get people to care about something they can’t see. 

Ed: In 2001, after years of campaigning, the Environment Minister of the time (Mr Iain Evans) announced permanent protection of this 128,000-hectare national park. 

2. Coongie Lakes

Our initial trip to Coongie was extraordinary: we had originally attempted to drive up the Strzelecki Track to Innamincka, but found it was closed due to flooding. 

This was the era before road closure signage was operated remotely, and we managed to double back to travel around the eastern flank of the northern Flinders Ranges via     Balcanoona before that road, too, officially closed shortly afterwards.

By the time we arrived at the lake (after some fishtailing adventures!) the light blue paint job of the trailer we were towing was invisible under a thick coating of dark reddish mud.

We arrived just in time to see the storm pass off to the north east, and were treated to the sight of a brilliant rainbow above the milky surface of the lake, all set against the darkest of skies.

Unforgettable!

3. Yellabinna

The Wilderness Society SA successfully attained a 500,000ha Wilderness Protection Area in the Yellabinna Regional Reserve. We jointly organised a letter writing campaign in support, that was the largest the Dept. of Environment’s office had received to that date. I know this because the Minister later expressed some dissatisfaction to me about this inundation!

4. Nullarbor

It’s been a real privilege to have undertaken several Wilderness Society journeys to the extraordinary expanses of the Nullarbor, as part of both the Bight and Nullarbor campaigns.

There’s an anecdote that comes to mind that highlights the uniqueness of this famously flat landscape: our group had driven out on park tracks from the Nullarbor Roadhouse to inspect the beautiful and culturally significant Murrawijinie caves. 

I happened to have my GPS with me, and had logged the roadhouse’s position. At the start of the return journey I asked my fellow passengers to estimate the straight line distance to the roadhouse, whose buildings could be clearly seen to the south east.

Most estimates were 2-3km. The maximum guess was 4. The actual distance? 11km!

5. Great Australian Bight

In the early days of my involvement, it was generally assumed that all campaigning was done by getting 500 people to stand outside of Parliament House. I think things have definitely moved on—now, we’re creating highly memorable media events. The paddle-out to Victor Harbor was just fabulous. The ability to create events that engage media attention has become more of a focus and has been very successful. 

Some of my favourite photos from this campaign are of Uncle Bunna doing a whale calling / smoking ceremony on the edge of some pretty spectacular—and steep—cliffs! 

Ed: With massive community backing, we've been keeping Big Oil out of the Bight for over a decade now—forcing fossil fuel giants BP, Chevron, Equinor and Santos to abandon plans to drill there. The next push? World Heritage protection for the spectacular land and sea Country of the Nullarbor and Great Australian Bight. 

6. Arkaroola

Ten years after the Vulkathunha-Gammon Ranges campaign, the adjacent Arkaroola Wilderness Sanctuary was also threatened by mining. It was a substantial fight getting this much-larger mining operation to quit the project, in collaboration with the owners and the Wilderness Sanctuary. It took four years, and now we have a completely protected sanctuary—over 60,000ha directly adjacent to the already protected Vulkathunha National Park, making nearly 200,000ha of fully-protected wild landscape all up.

7. Simpson Desert

It was extraordinary getting to the Simpson on a year that it had rained—seeing the desert with actual lakes between dunes, and wildflowers going on forever. That was also quite the expedition in terms of physically getting across there—an adventure in its own right!

Ed: The campaign to protect the Simpson was long-running, and resulted in the declaration of Australia’s largest national park, the Munga-Thirri—Simpson Desert National Park, in 2021. 

See more of Bill's work in Together for wilderness, an exhibition presented by The Wilderness Society South Australia. The photographic display in the beautiful wisteria arbours of the Adelaide Botanic Garden highlights the incredible wildlife, land and seascapes of the Nullarbor, Lake Eyre Basin and Great Australian Bight. Until 31 May 2026.

Farmhouse Creek, 40 years on

"Post-Franklin days, there was this perception that the wilderness had been saved. And that wasn't the case. If anyone knew about Tasmanian wilderness, there was a lot more to protect. Around about the mid-'80s, Bob Brown and others said, 'Well, you know, we've got to protect the forest in Tasmania...'" —Ted Mead.

Forty years ago, a landmark campaign for a young Wilderness Society saw the successful protection of the forests of Farmhouse Creek from destruction by the timber industry. Forty years later, we gathered at Davey Street, Hobart, for a reunion to share stories and hear about the Wilderness Society's ongoing work.

Photographs by Rex Direen; words: excerpts from the pages of 'For the Forests', by Helen Gee, published by Wilderness Society in 2001; as well as stories shared in person at the  recent anniversary at Davey Street.

Bob Brown: "That was probably the most intense action I've been involved in."

27 March 2026

At Davey Street, 40 years later... 
Photographs by Rachel Knepfer.

Bob Graham (excerpt from conversation at Davey Street, April, 2026): “In 1976, I did a trip down Farmhouse Creek. By then, the cavers had been in cutting tracks up the Picton and up Farmhouse Creek and over the Picton Divide, and their tracks were useful in places. It was very sad to come down that track and then go bush and find that the forestry were miles ahead of where they said they would be. So, yeah, they lied to us and deceived us all the way through. At the Wilderness Society, I personally led groups of people to those threatened forests and showed off these huge eucalypts, 12 feet through, 4 metres through.

"At the Wilderness Society, I personally led groups of people to those threatened forests and showed off these huge eucalypts, 12 feet through, 4 metres through, and yeah, we lost them. We blocked the Tahuny Bridge, the concrete bridge over the Picton and the wooden bridge over the Picton, all for one day. And I was on the wooden bridge over the Picton and we had... It's all worked out, this particular day, except the media stunt was going to be blockaded. But we got in early and that evening we set up our tripod and we had the tree-sitter on it and everything...”

Senator Nick McKim (excerpt from conversation at Davey Street, April, 2026): "I was a young university student and there were a whole bunch of people, many of whom are here tonight, who played a really critical and active role in the campaign. It was kind of the first time, as a young man, that I felt I was part of something that was bigger than I was. And I just want to reflect on how critical it is that, when you come together and you engage in collectivism and you form these bonds, they can awaken something in you. When it awakened something in me, it set me on a bit of a pathway that I'm still on, you know, all those decades later. So that was a really, really critical moment. 

"I remember the day that we did get arrested. It was a very early morning. We were asleep in our tents when the police arrived, and there was somebody— and if anyone can remember who this was or remembers this, I'd love to know who it was. But as we all got up, and the police were coming down, she said: I think we should sing a song.

"And I remember kind of rolling my eyes and saying, I don't really want to sing a song. I feel like we're in a battle here. And then she started singing the Joni Mitchell song about paving paradise to put up a parking lot. She had the most beautiful voice. And as the police marched down on one of those quiet, misty, Tassie wilderness mornings, this voice was just kind of almost a miraculous thing...

"Anyway, they arrested us, carted us off. We got on the bus, taken to the holding cells in the magistrate's court, no lawyers, and then straight into the Court...

"I remember ringing up Mum, once I got out, and saying I just got arrested. She said: you'll never get a decent job again. She was right all along. 

"That forest, as a few people have said, is in the World Heritage Area now, thanks to the people in this room and the dozens and hundreds, actually, of other people that participated in that campaign. And you've seen they're cracking down harder and harder and harder on protests—that's because it actually works and if we lose that, we will lose the lot. 

"So let's stay strong and stay active, because when you marry activism and politics, that's how you get change."

Roland Browne (excerpt from conversation at Davey Street, April, 2026): "I haven't seen a lot of these faces for a long period of time. And I look at the photo of myself and ask myself, what in the world did I think I was doing down there? Because I was really young. I was in, I think, my last year of university. But what I did know is that what was going on down there was really, really wrong. And that was shared amongst all of those amazingly brave people that you see in those photographs, and it's enthralling to see all of those people. And for me, I've moved through the last 40 years of my life in tandem with lots of those people, and out of that particular event, established some wonderful relationships, friendships, people that I just met and crossed paths."

Alice Hardinge (excerpt from conversation at Davey Street, April, 2026): "I want to start by saying a massive thank you to all of you who partook in the Farmhouse Creek protests—and all the other protests throughout the decades. We wouldn't have these World Heritage Areas if it weren't for brave people who stood up for such precious places. The next generations have already benefited. We want to continue this really important work to make sure that generations coming after mine and far into the future also get to enjoy the incredible environment that we're so lucky to have.

"It really is this incredibly beautiful ecosystem; how it is all passed on throughout the generations. 

"But a little bit about the campaigns we're running right now. Giant old growth eucalyptus is still falling in the forest in Lutruwita / Tasmania. Swift parrots are still flying around looking for their hollows, only to find that their homes are gone. And we're still seeing the expansion of inappropriate development into our incredible reserves and World Heritage Areas—building luxury lodges on the South Coast Track, or helicopter tourism to your own private island in the middle of Lake Malbena. 

"I really just want you to know that the battle does continue. We're so grateful for the wins that have happened in the past, but there is still a fair bit more to do. So thank you all for your ongoing support." 

From the archives: telegrams and letters from the stars of the era, sending 'best wishes for the success of the heroic struggle to preserve the Franklin as one of the great wonders of the world'. 

Famous people sending Love, light and peace, including from Spike Milligan, Manning Clark, Yehudi Menuhin, Melva Truchanas and Patrick White.