Soooo. You might have watched the videos, and you might have seen the photos, but nevertheless, allow me to enlighten you with the gripping drama of the Moreton Death March.
It all started about a month ago when my mate Tane mentioned that some friends of his were organizing a bushwalking weekend on Moreton Island. Ever eager to get some experience doing things off the mountain, I asked if I could come along and he said “But of course!”
Now, we both had it in our minds that we would go to the island for a nice, relaxing bushwalk with maybe some snorkeling and a barbie at the end. What waited for us was nothing short of a nightmare. Yes. That’s right. A nightmare.
To start off with, the people who planned the route decided that 48 kilometres would be the prefect length. And, they didn’t bother learning how to read topographic maps before selecting the route. And, they didn’t tell us what the route was so we could investigate on our own time. And, they didn’t check to make sure that there was potable water at any of the campsites that we would be passing. And, they didn’t take into account the age and medical condition of all of the members of the walking party.
So Day One of The Moreton Death March…
Got off the ferry on the western side of the island at 1000, started walking immediately. Proceeded 19 kilometres through ankle-deep, soft sand while carrying a 20Kg pack and wearing Chacos. Arrived at beach on eastern side by 1700, then proceeded north along beach (hooray compacted sand!) to designated camping site (Eagers Creek), 2 kilometres away. By now we were out of water, and upon arriving at Eagers Creek found it to be dry. As a bone. Having no other option, we continued north along the beach for another 7 kilometres and arrived at the Blue Lagoon campsite by 1930, an hour after dark. Exhausted, we made camp and quickly ate and fell asleep to the melodious sounds of blistered feet and aching backs.
Day Two, The Moreton Death March:
Woke up at 0500, broke camp, and got walking by 0615. Not a bad way to start the day, watching the sunrise over the ocean, but still aching, dehydrated, and moderately irritated at the planning of the trip. Seven kilometres north to the lighthouse on packed sand, and then 14 kilometres back to the ferry sloshing through deep, loose sand. Oh, and about 300 metres of that was off track through thick heath because of ANOTHER planning error. I tell you, these folks had absolutely no appreciation for maps! Anyway, trudging along through the sand, and a police truck comes up behind us bearing one of our walking party who had fallen behind. At this point, we still had about 8 kilometres to go, and we were all pretty sure that he would have been hospitalised had he continued in the condition he was in. Tane and I wisely removed water from our packs and tossed them into the back of the truck and happily limped on, 20Kg lighter each. Arrived back at the ferry by 1400, having completed 48 kilometres in 28 hours.
So let this be a lesson to you, fair reader. If you want to let somebody else plan YOUR holiday, make sure they’ve got some freakin’ credentials, and make sure that their motivations are similar to yours. Because otherwise, you’ll find yourself in the rain, pushing through dense, thorny bushes while wearing sandals and shorts. So be ye warned.
