I Climbed Cradle Mountain So You Don’t Have To
Turns out ‘lookout’ is code for ‘nearly died.’
So in my never-ending quest to turn every Australian landmark into a personal drone runway, I decided it was time to get ambitious. Enter: Cradle Mountain. Majestic. Iconic. And tragically riddled with signs that scream ‘DRONE-FREE ZONE,’ written by the bureaucratic killjoys at Tasmanian Parks & Wildlife (who were clearly on a caffeine-fuelled power trip).
But Fergus III had never been to Cradle Mountain, and frankly, the little guy was twitching in his case like an excitable greyhound on race day. Who was I to deny him his moment? That would be drone cruelty. And I’m not a monster.
But this time, Cradle had pulled herself together. Blue skies. Sunshine. No horizontal rain attempting to exfoliate my eyeballs. I took it as a sign. This was the day Fergus III would earn his wings. We set our sights on Marion’s Lookout, blissfully unaware of the thigh massacre ahead.
We started at Dove Lake, where I launched Fergus like a seasoned pilot (read: someone whose drone hasn’t died in a tragic tree-related incident in at least three weeks). He skimmed low over the water, giving me all the drama. The famed boat shed was practically begging for an Instagram debut - moody, rustic, utterly unnecessary but entirely perfect. Fergus nailed it. I was high on cinematic smugness and adrenaline.
From there, I trotted off to Lake Lilla, which was underwhelming at best. Water? Yes. Reflection of Cradle Mountain? Not even trying. Zero points. Wombat Pool came next, and I’ll admit - I had hopes. I’ve been told by literally everyone (and their dog) that ‘you’ll definitely see a wombat at Cradle!’
Well, spoiler alert: they are liars. Wombats are extinct. Or invisible. Or both. I scanned that pool like a woman searching for her dignity after tequila, but nope. Not a whisker. Wombats, it turns out, are introverts who reject anyone named Liv (or Fergus).
And then came the climb. Oh sweet hell, the climb. Loose rocks. Narrow tracks. No railings. By the time I got to Crater Lake, I was openly contemplating death by cliff dive - not for drama, just to stop climbing. Fergus was stealthily deployed for short bursts of footage while I played hide-and-seek with imaginary rangers. I pictured them hiding in the scrub with night-vision goggles and a dart gun, hissing into their radios, ‘She’s airborne. I repeat - Drone Mum is airborne.’
I shoved a muesli bar in my face, questioned every life choice that led me here, and powered on.
Now, let’s talk about Marion and her so-called ‘lookout.’ Marion, honey - who hurt you?
This ‘walk’ turned into a full-blown mountaineering expedition. We’re talking vertical ascents, metal chain ropes bolted into sheer rock, and stone steps clearly designed for eight-foot Scandinavian giants. My legs were jelly. My arms were screaming. My soul was halfway to Centrelink filing for a medical exemption.
But I was not turning back. Oh no. I’m a stubborn cow with a mild superiority complex and a desperate need for Instagram validation.
And finally - I made it. Red-faced. Sweaty. Mentally writing my own obituary. But that view? Bloody breathtaking. Cradle Mountain, in all her smug, photogenic glory. She knows she’s hot.
The rangers were nowhere in sight (probably inside drinking lattes and high-fiving each other for ruining joy), so I unzipped Fergus’s case and whispered ‘Go, my son. Fly free.’
And he did. Magnificently. Gracefully. Not one error. Not one tree. He flew like he was born to do it - dodging tourist helicopters like a tiny airborne ninja. The footage? Actual drone porn. If I don’t get a Tourism Tasmania brand deal from this, the universe is broken.
Feeling victorious and a tad invincible, I spotted a sign pointing to a shortcut back to Dove Lake. And look - I’m a shortcut kind of girl. What I failed to notice was that this ‘shortcut’ was actually a full-body abseiling challenge masquerading as a walking track. Chains. Steep drops. A trail carved by sadists.
By the time I reached the bottom, my shoulders had dislocated from my soul. My hands were trembling. My thighs were vibrating at a frequency only dogs could hear. I was drafting my will in my head and wondering who’d inherit Fergus (spoiler: no one is worthy).
Eventually - miraculously - I dragged my broken carcass to the shuttle bus stop. Collapsed onto the seat like a Victorian heroine with consumption. And rode that shuttle back to the visitor centre like a war veteran returning from the front lines, where I joyfully reunited with LB and wept silent, exhausted tears of triumph.
But you know what? I did it. I beat the mountain. I got the shots. Fergus survived. No limbs were permanently lost. No rangers arrested me (yet).
Cradle Mountain: 0. Me and Fergus III: 1.
Long may he fly.
“She launched that thing like she was invading a small country. My daughter cried. My wife is googling ‘quiet national parks.’ I am this close to snapping a hiking pole in half.”
