This article was produced by National Geographic Traveller (UK).
Moving rhythmically, almost without thought, I dip my oar in and out of Dove Lake, water trickling in its wake. Up ahead, the autumnal slopes of Cradle Mountain are ablaze with colour in the early light, its jagged peaks piercing a cloudy sky that’s just waking up to the day. Despite the picturesque scene unfolding in front of me, I’m too preoccupied to soak in the view because I’m scanning the rocky shoreline for clues. Anthony O’Hern’s words run through my head: ‘If you want to find King Billy, look to the ground.’
I’ve joined Anthony, who runs adventure company Cradle Mountain Canyons, on a kayaking quest in search of alpine royalty. King Billy pine trees are a living relic of Gondwana, the ancient supercontinent that eventually broke up into Africa, South America and Australia some 180 million years ago. I’m here because the conifer species, which is exceptionally long-lived and slow growing, is found only in Tasmania’s high country. Even here, it can be hard to find.
After Europeans colonised Tasmania in 1803, King Billy timber was highly prized thanks to its light weight and durability, which made it ideal for woodworking and especially ship building. A combination of logging, mining and fires saw the population of the trees dwindle dramatically, with an estimated 40% lost over 200 years. To stem the tide, the Australian government granted the species protected status in 1999, which made logging of the trees illegal.
Today, clusters of the ancient pine trees, distant relatives of the towering Californian redwood, persist in parts of Tasmania’s Wilderness World Heritage Area. The 6,100sq-mile reserve includes Cradle Mountain-Lake St Clair National Park, an alpine wonderland of ancient rainforests, glacial valleys and craggy peaks two hours from the city of Launceston. The oldest specimens here would have been mere saplings when Rome was sacked some 1,600 years ago. Most of their whereabouts are kept secret by the park’s rangers, but younger trees can be found around Dove Lake — if you know how to spot them.
After a chilly start, the blazing sun has burned away the clouds and conditions on the water are perfect for paddling. Sporting a bright yellow safety vest and a wavy shag of brown hair that shields his eyes against the morning light, Anthony leads our small group past a historic boat shed, explaining how panels of the King Billy timber used to construct the weathered building are regularly stolen by visitors wanting to take home an exclusive cheeseboard. We point our bows east and are soon skirting shallow rocky banks where beech (Fagus) trees, Australia’s only native deciduous species, are beginning to blush crimson and gold, creating a stunning but short-lived bloom that draws crowds each April.
The kayak slices gracefully through the water — it seems lighter than the fibreglass kayaks I’ve handled before, and Anthony tells me they’re not made from fibreglass at all. As we paddle past clusters of verdant myrtle and pencil pine trees, he reveals he personally handmade our crafts with wood from “the last King Billy in captivity”.
When a bushfire tore through the Raglan Range just outside the national park’s western borders in the late 1960s, the sawmilling Bradshaw family salvaged burned King Billy pine trees. Even though the trees were dead, much of their timber was untouched by the flames and still in good condition. Knowing they sat on the last legal stockpile of this rare and precious material, the family took their custodianship very seriously and would only sell it to those they deemed worthy. Over coffee and a yarn, Anthony convinced Ian Bradshaw, the 93-year-old patriarch, to let him use the timber to make kayaks.
“I really wanted to tell the story of King Billy and share the history of the area. I think people like the idea that you’re sitting on this 1,000-year-old bit of wood and then you go to see its living relative,” says Anthony, recalling his winning elevator pitch. Over the next year, Anthony put his kids to bed each night and then retreated to his shed to make kayaks by hand, teaching himself by reading books and watching YouTube videos. With three boats now in the water, he plans to complete another two, which he expects will take around 400 hours to build.
I’m yet to catch a glimpse of my kayak’s famous kin when I glide into the shore, landing among the pebbles with a gentle thud. I wade out of the frigid waters to a sandy clearing where Anthony is already boiling a kettle over a compact stove. Raucous black cockatoos are busily tearing open gum tree boughs in search of juicy grubs, and celery leaf trees fragrance the air with the faintly herbaceous appeal of gin and tonic.
After stretching our legs to work out the pins and needles and enjoying a steaming hot chocolate, we leave the kayaks behind and continue our mission to find King Billy trees on foot. Fully prepared for a lengthy search, I’m scanning the ground for spiky branchlets that have fallen to the ground — a key sign that a King Billy is nearby — when Anthony pulls us up. A short distance from the track, obscured by the twisted limbs and boughs of other trees, we find an immense King Billy tree. “You could walk right past it and never know it was there — unless you know what you’re looking for,” says Anthony.
From a throne of shallow roots, the majestic pine reaches skywards, exploding into a vibrant emerald crown that ends in claw-shaped shoots. High above, grey-green lichen droops from the boughs like a wizened beard.
And this king is not alone. As we walk deeper into the Ballroom Forest — so named for the cavernous canopy overhead — Anthony points out yet more King Billy pine trees, as well as lemon-scented boronia and various mushroom types.
Once our search is over, we begin to make our way back towards the kayaks when Anthony unexpectedly steps off the path and into the bush. I follow and find him standing next to a slender young tree with familiar shoots. Anthony says it’s a hybrid, the mysterious love child of a pencil and King Billy pine. It’s so new and rare, scientists are yet to give it a common name. Inspecting its lance-shaped branchlets, I realise we’ve just found a prince hiding in the woods.
Published in the November 2024 issue of National Geographic Traveller (UK)
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