In the land of giants and inappropriate footwear

Steps.

So many steps.

One thousand and thirty-eight of them.

Heartrate-elevating, sweat-producing, lung-burning steps.

Up, up, up.

In thongs.

Now, I should clarify that while my footwear was the least practical choice for what the WalkingSA website categorises as a ‘Grade 4 (out of 5) Hard Hike’ — thank you for justifying my hurt, by the way — it was also the least of my concerns.

While trying hard to regulate my breathing through the anguish — I’ve always favoured undulating terrain over unrelenting climbs — I was profoundly uneasy about the possibility of accidentally startling slithering danger noodles underfoot.

In hindsight, it was a pretty dumb thing to do, being the only ‘hikers’ in the vicinity and no mobile service.

I use the term ‘hikers’ loosely in this instance, because hikers educate themselves about things like hiking grades and inclines beforehand and go better prepared in trail boots, and carrying a snakebite kit and more than a single bottle of water between three people.

But, wherever spontaneity exists, so too does a certain dose of stupidity.

It depends, of course, on what, where, who and how you’re doing it.

Clearly though, I didn’t meet my fate at the fangs of a serpent if I’m here to tell you this tale, but, in the same way I’ve survived many things in life, we only have luck to thank for that, not brains.

Anyway, Mount Schank felt like a must-see when we reclaimed some time after escaping Port Macdonnell and its awful odour.

I’m not sure if it always smells like that, but how there were permanent residents there mystified me in that moment.

We spent as brief a period there as possible when we saw the tide was out and the foreshore was in no way, shape, form or scent fit to enjoy a fish and chip feast on.

It was also windy enough to knot my hair so much that I contemplated shaving it off because that seemed like the only solution to get rid of said knots.

(Could that be why wind speed is measured in knots?)

So, while Mount Schank hadn’t initially been on the itinerary, who wouldn’t take the unexpected opportunity to check out a dormant volcano when you live in what feels like the flattest place on Earth a six-hour drive away?

Mount Schank was named after Admiral John Schank, the designer of the HMS Lady Nelson, during the ship’s voyage along Australia’s south-east coast in 1800; it was the same voyage that sighted and labelled Mount Gambier.

You can hike up to the rim like we did, and you can also hike all the way around its rim, like we didn’t.

Unlike Mount Gambier, Mount Schank’s craters are above the local water table, so they’re dry.

You can take a track down into the crater, which is cool and all, but despite its last eruption taking place around 5000 years ago (it’s one of Australia’s youngest volcanoes), my wild imagination would have me convinced my trudging across her bed would awaken her from her slumber.

And I have very little faith in my ability to escape her spitting lava quick enough to survive.

Who am I kidding? The real reason I didn’t want to walk down into it is because I’d have faced more uphill in thongs to get out of it.

The view from the rim looking down into the crater was jaw-dropping enough anyway.

Equally was the view looking back towards the coast, particularly as it was late afternoon when the sun was low.

And, if you like a good origin story to ponder while you take in the view, local Aboriginal Bunganditj lore tells of a giant, named Craitbul, whose family used the craters as camp ovens before water extinguished the fires within them.

It made perfect sense while perched on that rim above that monumental crater.

It absolutely looked every bit the kind of land ancient giants would inhabit.

Who, let’s face it, could probably scale those 1038 steps in two of their own.

And I bet they wouldn’t even need hiking boots.

Or thongs.

I bet they did it barefoot without even raising a blister.