Climbing Howe's Mount Gower

Lord Howe - Climbing Howe's Mount Gower

The eight-hour walk to Lord Howe's highest peak is no mean feat

There's no ignoring Mount Gower on Lord Howe Island, a tiny speck of an island just 11km long and barely two kilometres at its widest 550km east of Port Macquarie. At 875 metres high the mountain, along with its 100-metre shorter sister peak Mt Lidgbird, dominates the southern tip of the breathtakingly beautiful island - wherever you look, its brooding presence is there, sometimes standing tall, proud and naked, sometimes shrouded in cloud.

Wherever you go on the island, Mount Gower looms larger than life

The rocky flat-topped peak's image is on all the postcards, in all the books, its likeness stamped on all the souvenirs, incorporated into most of the logos of the island's businesses, printed on all the t-shirts - including mine, which says "I climbed Mount Gower, and survived."

Walking to the summit of Mount Gower is not something to be taken lightly. It may well be rated one of the world's best day walks, but it's also rated a grade 10, which makes it defiantly not a walk for the unfit, the feint-hearted, those with a fear of heights or with dodgy knees. Indeed, so fearsome does its reputation become after two days on the island, neck craned towards the far away summit, that my travelling companion, after expressing her doubts on whether she can make it to the top, conveniently stubs her toe on a rock while taking a sunset stroll along the beach and declares it broken. There's no alternative, she says. We must carry on without her. She'll be OK, she assures us, as she books herself in for a full-day pamper package at the resort spa.

It's also not a walk you can do alone; you must climb with a licensed guide - although whether that's because there is no clearly marked track or because the nearest mountain rescue service is 500km away I'm not sure. We sign up with local lad, Jack Shick, a fifth generation Islander who knows everything there is to know about the local flora and fauna and seems to take the mountain in his stride, laconically describing the track ahead as "a whole lot of straight up".

It all begins easily enough, as we stride out along the beach just after dawn, merrily chatting amongst ourselves, a band of a dozen or so eager walkers.

It's a pleasant ramble through a native kentia palm forest, past huge Banyan Trees trailing long aerial roots, Lord Howe woodhens scurrying across the track to the safety of the undergrowth.

The cute olive-brown flightless bird was on the brink of extinction 25 years ago, one of the rarest birds on earth with less than a dozen nesting pairs left.Those that survived the impact of the introduction of pigs on the island by sailors in the late 18th century did so mainly atop the summit of Mount Gower, where the wild pigs could not reach them.Now that the feral pigs have been eradicated, the woodhen has made a comeback.

But as we emerge from the forest, the true nature of the walk is revealed, as we don safety helmets and gingerly edge our way along a slippery grass track carved into the side of the cliffs that form the lower section of Mt Lidgbird several hundred metres above the churning waves and rocks below. We tightly grip the rope bolted into the cliffside as vertigo threatens to overwhelm us - or at least me. I slip on the dew-wet grass, landing harmlessly on my bum, but watch in terror as my hard hat crashes and tumbles over the edge, smashing to smithereens on the rocks below, and try not to think of the outcome if I'd been still attached to that helmet.

Safely across the open expanse, we take a breather while Jack nimbly demonstrates his kentia palm climbing skills (harvesting the seeds is a major source of income for most young islanders) and then ready ourselves for the main ascent.

It is, as Jack so succinctly put it at the beginning of the walk, indeed “a whole lot of straight up”

A hard four-hour slog that involves lung-bustlingly long uphill stretches punctuated only by ungainly clamours up and around huge boulders so large that you need to haul yourself up with ropes permanently anchored into the rock and scrambles around more cliff-edge ledges with dizzying drops beneath you.

Finally, we arrive at a spot descriptively called "the get up place". The make-or-break-point for many on the walk, it is a long rope-assisted haul up near vertical rock faces, so steep that even feral pigs couldn't conquer the climb, much to the woodhens' salvation. I seize upon the pigs’ dilemma, trying to convince myself that I am 'better than your average bush pig', and repeat it to myself as a motivating mantra, until I finally drag myself to the summit, where I collapse in exhaustion, just as the cloud cover dissipates and all of Lord Howe Island and its fringing reef shimmers and sparkles below us."Look ma, I'm on top of the world!" I mutter to myself.

Very big, unafraid currajongs sit and stare, just an arm lengths away, while we devour soggy beetroot salad sandwiches and sit in silence as we take in the view. It's been a four-hour-slog to get here, but now we must face the trek down on tired, jellied legs.

The descent is more terrifying than the climb, as we swing from branch to branch like brachiating apes trying to keep our balance as we slip and slide over slimy tree roots that were so helpful on the way up, now our enemy, threatening to send us skittering over the mountain edge.

We abseil, without the harness, down the massive boulders, hoping our sweaty palms don't lose grip, and stumble along creek beds with aching knees, as I promise myself that if I get back to the resort in one piece it will be roast pork for dinner."Better than your average bush pig", I repeat to myself, as I re-don the hard hat and negotiate the Mt Lidgbird ledge, trying hard not to look down to the boiling water below, before delving back into the kentia palm forest, safe in the knowledge that the resort is finally within reach.

I wearily try and punch the air in triumph, but decide to collapse onto the waiting bus instead, thankful that I hadn't decided to ride the resort bicycle to the meeting point earlier that morning.

Two cold beers, one hot shower, one glass of celebratory champagne and a large helping of crisp pork belly with salt and pepper octopus later my spa-pampered companion asks "Was the t-shirt worth it?"

You bet!

Article by Lee Atkinson, December 2005.