Video: The South Coast Track! | A unique experience in my life.

On the edge of heading to my next destination and another massive big hike across Australia, I’ve finally wrapped editing the travel video for the South Coast Track. I’m beyond proud to share it below — this was my last stop in Tasmania’s wild south, and it was nothing short of unique, raw, and breathtaking. Full travel guides and a deep dive on hiking this beast coming soon. For now, let the footage tell the story.

The South Coast Track: Tasmania’s Ultimate Wilderness Challenge

The South Coast Track earns its reputation as one of the world’s great wilderness walks — and for good reason. Once you commit, your only choices are finishing the 85km or turning back. No middle ground. It starts at the impossibly remote Melaleuca airstrip — literally a dirt runway carved from pure bush — and ends at Cockle Creek, the first whisper of civilization after days of nothing. One path. No escape hatches.

Don’t let the “coast” name fool you. This track delivers everything: waist-deep river crossings, rowing across flooded valleys, two brutal mountain ranges, button-grass plains that swallow your boots, and mud pits that fight every step. Pack camping gear, a week’s food, fuel, and survival basics in your backpack — then carry it all through Tasmania’s moodiest weather. No facilities. No shortcuts. Pure commitment.

My South Coast Track Story

Everything began with that tiny plane lifting off from Hobart — just the pilot up front, one quiet fellow passenger, and me strapped into the cockpit co-pilot seat. As we banked west, Hobart’s familiar patchwork of suburbs and harbors shrank below, giving way to the endless green void of Southwest National Park wilderness. Jagged coastlines fractured into whitecaps, untouched ranges rolled to every horizon. Already, before my boots touched trail, I knew this flight alone made the whole trip worthwhile.

Exactly one hour later, we touched down with a jolt onto Melaleuca’s lonely airstrip — little more than packed dirt slashed from pure bushland. My fellow hiker shouldered his pack without a word and vanished down the faint track toward camp before darkness fell. The plane’s engine roared back to life, climbing steeply away toward Hobart.

Then came the moment: total silence. Just me, my overloaded backpack, and a barely visible path swallowed by wall-to-wall tea-tree and cutting grass. Next road, next phone signal, next human — all 85km away on foot. No turning back now. Week one had begun.

The Good, The Muddy, The Epic

Let me be honest — the weather gods smiled on me. South Coast Track legends whisper of horizontal rain that stings like needles, 100kmh gusts that glue you to mountainsides, days where visibility drops to 20 meters. I drew two moody days across seven, but nothing that broke my spirit. Sunshine transformed waist-deep river crossings from treacherous flood chutes into manageable fords (daylight reveals the safe rocks hidden beneath raging murk). Muddy camp creeks suddenly offered drinkable water. Mountain winds stayed thrilling rather than terrifying.

Even blessed with good conditions, the track tested every ounce of resolve. Knee-deep mud claimed my boots so often I lost count — alone with a 20kg pack in absolute planetary nowhere, those moments carve deep into your core. Dry footwear? Day one only. By day three, every sock, every layer, completely saturated.

The Magic That Made It Worth It

Worst moment crashed after the highest summit. Heavy rain turned post-peak rainforest into an impenetrable maze. One minute I’m following faded orange markers; the next, nothing but dripping ferns and zero trail. Hours dissolved into panic — soaked to marrow, second-guessing every compass reading, wondering if I’d wandered into some unmarked dead-end valley. Heart hammering, I retraced to a familiar stream from earlier, followed it blindly downhill through clawing undergrowth. Then — miracle — orange triangle through the mist. Stumbled back onto track shaking. That relief still tightens my chest remembering it.

Dark moments faded against rewards that burned brighter. Mid-hike, I crossed paths again with my plane companion — instant spark. By evening camps, we’d loosely grouped with other solo walkers. Daytime solitude gave way to firelit gatherings: dawn pancakes sizzling on Optimus stoves, whiskey nips passed around flickering flames, trail war stories traded like currency. Solitude fueled the miles; shared humanity made them unforgettable.

Endless pale-sand beaches stretched empty save my footprints. Mountain passes parted low cloud to reveal fractured ranges folding endlessly toward Antarctica. Campsites nested in ancient horizontal gums, stars punching through velvet dark with no light pollution anywhere. South Coast Track transcended “hike” — it became proving ground, crucible, quiet triumph.

Final Lesson Learned
I cherished the isolation’s meditative rhythm, but human connection amplified every vista, every earned camp. Also learned: waterproof drybags next time. If rainforest-lost strikes again, at least crawl into something resembling dry while waiting out the night deluge 🙂

Tasmania’s crown jewel, beyond question. Watch the full journey above — then lace up for yours.

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