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Snow blew sideways and stuck to my bare legs as I scrambled over a truck-sized talus to the 1,121-metre summit of Hanson's Peak. Another gust sent snowflakes down my neck and I shuddered as I pulled my hood down tight.

I was poorly dressed. It was late November and I was less than three hours into Tasmania's Overland Track, an eight-day, 70-kilometre hike through some of Australia's best backcountry. Despite the warnings, I had expected an Austral summer's day.

On previous trips Down Under, I had visited the Opera House, climbed Uluru (also known as Ayers Rock) and dived the Great Barrier Reef. This time, I had set off to explore a part of Australia relatively few tourists, except for outdoor adventurers, see. I signed up for a trip with Tasmanian Expeditions, a local outfitter specializing in adventure travel. My group of four was led by guides James Wirsu, a young, messy-haired blond, and Evan Thomas, a friendly silver-haired, thirtysomething. Although basic huts are located along the trail, which many hikers use, we would be camping for the duration of the trip.

A heart-shaped island twice the size of Vancouver Island, Tassie, as it's often called by Australians, is a place of rugged beauty. One-fifth of the state is protected as a World Heritage Area. The Overland Track is Australia's most popular multiday walk, attracting about 9,000 hikers each year. It cuts through the centre of the island, traversing alpine meadows, mountain lakes and craggy peaks. While the Track is more Appalachian Trail than Andes, I didn't expect to see snow.

Descending through the clouds from Hanson's Peak, the dramatic landscape came into view: Dove Lake, a dark mountain lake ringed by gum and tea trees, lay below; to the east, the tiny Twisted Lakes; and 1,545-metre, cloud-shrouded Cradle Mountain dominated the western horizon.

The trail is well marked, and there are boardwalks over most muddy sections, but not all. Thomas told us the procedure for crossing puddles on the path: “We practise wet-boot walking.”

He explained that the major cause of trail erosion is people walking around puddles, making them larger. Like proud preschoolers, we would march straight through.

When we arrived at camp that night, my feet were a sopping mess. The others in the group had brought dry shoes for the campsite. I had none. As I pitched my tent on a patch of wet earth surrounded by streams, in a forest of scraggly tea trees, Thomas called out a warning: “Check your bodies for leeches,” he said as he flicked one of the tiny bloodsuckers off his leg with a knife. I began to wonder what I had signed up for.

The next morning, I awoke to a layer of frost. A pademelon, a cute, cat-sized wallaby, wandered through the site, looking for food. Native wildlife such as Bennet's wallaby, spiny echidnas, Tasmanian Devils and wombats are often seen along the Track. The group hiked through squat gum trees and King Billy pines onto a ridge of button grass and alpine tarns.

The terrain resembled the Scottish Highlands. We trudged over broken boardwalks and through ankle-deep mud. The goal for the day was Barn Bluff, a rocky, 1,559-metre-high peak that looms over the landscape like a miniature Mount Doom. After ditching our heavy packs, we began the hike up the steep scree slope to the dolerite columns on the summit. Visibility dropped to nothing and it began to snow — again.

As the last landmass in the Southern Ocean before Antarctica, Tasmania lies in the path of the Roaring 40s, a notorious band of winds that encircles the globe and produces fierce storms. The weather can change in an instant. I scurried back down and the snow turned to rain. When I reached the packs, they were open and our food was scattered. Some currawongs, large birds resembling crows, had got into them, opening zippers with their beaks, chewing through zip-lock bags and eating much of our food.

While the days on the Track were long, the hiking was enjoyable. I spent most of the time at the back of the group taking in the scenery, snapping pictures and talking with Thomas. He's one of the most serene people I have ever met. He told me about the native plants, the history of the land and stories about the aboriginal people who inhabited it.

“It's important to realize that we're actually part of the landscape,” he said. “That's how the aboriginals saw themselves.”

On the fifth day, a misty rain enveloped the campsite. Thomas, who was busy boiling water for breakfast, looked up and said, “The birds told us it was going to rain.” He explained that the birds always move to the forest floor to sing before a rain. “The earth tells us all we need to know, if we just listen to it.”

Today, we would climb 1,617-metre Mount Ossa, Tasmania's highest peak. We began the scramble up the loose slope and into the clouds. On the summit, boulders were stacked like fallen dominoes. It began raining and we beelined back to the campsite. I set up my tent and huddled with the others under a small rain tarp. Everyone in the group had their shoes and socks off to dry their feet and the pungent smell overpowered the risotto Wirsu had made for supper.

Afterward, Evan pulled out a box of Tim-Tams, a popular chocolate-coated biscuit. “I'm going to show you an Australian institution,” he said. He took one of the cookies, bit off both ends, and used it as a straw to suck his hot tea through. “Lovely.” I tried it and made a soggy mess.

The next morning, it was still overcast, and it looked as though more rain would follow. “The birds are quiet today,” said Thomas, making coffee. “Should be a fine day.” Soon after we left camp, the clouds cleared and the sun shone for the next two days. We traversed lowland forests of giant fern trees, swam in cool waterfalls and rested beside alpine tarns. It was warm and felt like summer.

After pitching our tents for the final night, we climbed to a lookout called the Labyrinth. It was a short, hard climb, and my legs were burning by the time I reached the summit. Warm afternoon light illuminated the surrounding peaks of Mount Gould, the Parthenon, the Minotaur and the forests of eucalyptus blanketing the valley. Lake St. Clair, the end of the Overland Track, was a blue ribbon glistening on the horizon. Without a snowstorm to chase us off the peak, we relaxed, snapped photos and chatted about how nice the weather was.

Special to The Globe and Mail