Poised above a verdant tapestry of alpine forests and silvery tarns, Cradle Mountain beckons me onto its rugged granite slopes at dawn. Past ice-blue Dove Lake, mirroring the mountain’s famously fluted summit, there are hidden plateaus of buttongrass cradling sparkling pools, and the chance to glimpse wild things. This is what lures my sleepy band of walkers onto the trail while we are barely awake, and all this early-morning splendour catches us by surprise. There’s no denying the steepness of this trail, or the wild, precarious scramble that finally lands us breathless on the mountain’s windswept top, but this all-day adventure endures in my mind as one of my best days on Earth.
From that lofty peak that pulls hundreds of gazes skyward every day, the views are nothing short of sublime. Laid out before me and stretching endlessly in every direction are the alpine heathlands, deep, forested valleys and lofty glacial lakes that stud Cradle Mountain–Lake St Clair National Park. In Tasmania’s most famous wilderness we spot the tail end of a spotted-tail quoll, disappearing swiftly from sight, and whenever I lift my gaze from my muddy, trudging boots I marvel at
