The Maoi Tower: “I think this it!” Mayan Smith-Gobat shouted after our “90-minute” hike had turned into a three-hour slog through mud, across streams, and up hand-built steps on the coastal trails of Tasmania’s Fortescue Bay. We had finally found the small cairn that marks the abseil to the base of the Moai tower, a 110-foot-tall spindly sea stack and my first non-desert tower. Formed by high winds running through the waterway between Australia and New Zealand, this dolerite minaret sits in an area that locals call “the ditch.” Guarded by a series of abseils through loose stone and ferns, the tower sits on the endpoint of a jutting land bridge that’s ravaged by wind and waves. The blackened stone looks polished and carved, and with the Moai standing as a lone sentinel on a tennis court–size platform a mere 10 feet above sea level, there’s an overwhelming feeling of isolation in this place.

“Over here!” Mayan shouted again as photographer Andrew Burr and I blundered through thick shrubbery toward the disembodied voice. Burr and I played Marco Polo with Mayan as we navigated through the gum trees and five-foot-tall ferns. When we finally stumbled across the cairn, the hill steepened sharply, blocking our view of what was just past the small pile of stones.

“I hope this is it,” I said, dropping 200 meters of 9mm static rope, a rack of 15 draws, shoes, and a harness. I crumpled to the ground by the edge of the sea cliff, my patience weakened due to a lack of food and water. The hike through the coastal terrain had taken a bigger toll than I thought, and, dubious of the accuracy of our location, I felt my foul mood shift toward a full-blown tantrum, mirroring the storm clouds building up on the horizon.