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We left the track a fair while ago, or perhaps it left us. By the time we had circled the Blue Peaks (two hilly lumps that were neither peaks nor particularly blue) and began to roll down the slope towards Middle Lake, it had thrown up its hands and left us to the alpine moors. On a land bridge near the lake we stumble on the usual pads broken by others like us, or native creatures less like us, but these are the last signs of anything resembling a path—little more than the scrub hanging a little looser. Beyond the lakes we’re expecting to hit marshes, but the land ends up being dry enough for us to keep a steady pace without sinking into the ground.

We begin to heave our packs up a rise, but spotting pools of water and a creek near a patch of flat yellow turf, we stop to set camp before continuing on with day packs, climbing through lovely pencil pine country—so many small lakes and tumbling streams—and edging up to the high cliffs that mark the summit of Turrana Bluff. The light stretching with the late day’s slump and the views across the plateau have us lingering longer than we should.