I can’t blame you if you question what a walk along Barnbougle Beach is doing in a blog that mostly contains “real” bushwalking (so, walking at least at some stage in the bush), with the odd post on Orienteering, which also, at least, generally takes place in the bush. What was I doing on such a walk?
Pacific gulls enjoying the vistaSweet little Red-capped plovers
Well, the walk was being done by friends who manage to make themselves clear on a Wednesday. When reading the description, I noted that this “bushwalk” included having lunch at a Lost Farm Restaurant. I imagined some farming couple up there on the coast feeding us produce from their own paddocks in a homey sort of atmosphere, and I thought it would be fun to try. The walk would be at least 12 kms long, which is not a lot, but would do, so curiosity had me stick my name on the list. I would not normally volunteer for a flat walk of that kind, but something urged me to give it a go.
Pied oystercatchersWalking and talking, Barnbougle Beach
Over the first dune we went (actually, via a tunnel) and out we emerged into a marvel of aquamarine and white, stretching vast distances to left and right. I was in love, and I hadn’t quite made my first step on the pure sand yet. A variety of seabirds flitted past. I’d even seen a Wedge-tailed eagle from a mere three metres away as I drove in, but it had gone by the time I grabbed the camera placed in the passenger’s seat.
What a place! Lucky Pacific gull.
I walked, talked and dreamt, dropping back quite often in order to spend time with this or that bird, and then catching the others afterwards, enjoying the expanse, the colours, the views and conversations with my companions. We had four river crossings to do this day. The first was very easy. I took off my shoes, and enjoyed the feel of the cool water on my feet and the texture of the soft sand. I walked a few kilometres in bare feet afterwards, quite often just in the water. Some went swimming in our food break.
Crested terns circle while the next crossing is being discussed.And they’re off, while Louise photographs, meaning I started last and was then very slow. Oh well; there were no trains to catch and I didn’t get dunked.Hm. It seems to be getting waist deep. This is going to be tricky with my gear. Not your normal bushwalking photo.
The next crossing, at the mouth of Anderson Bay, was more challenging. Low tide was still an hour or so away, but we didn’t feel like waiting that long, so crossed anyway. I hoped the “tidal rush” wouldn’t topple me. Knowing that we had these crossings, I had left my very best camera and birding lens at home, but my second best is also very good and also expensive, so I didn’t want to accidentally lose balance. The others seemed to find merriment in how slow and careful I was executing this crossing, but I managed to get through it without damaging any of my gear, and that was all I cared about.
Delicious lunch. Not exactly the norm for a bushwalk either, but it sure was a welcome change!
Lost Farm turned out to be the Restaurant attached to Barnbougle. The view out the window had me do a quiet gasp, and it so happened the food was wonderful. The mood was relaxed: fine company; delicious food; stories and laughter circulating. The grins in the photo are not lying. Unfortunately nobody else wanted dessert, so I stored that idea for some future visit; at least we had coffee and a biscuit at the very end of the day (after two more careful river crossings further west) before driving home. The others are connecting other walks they’ve done in order to eventually have walked from the far NE of Tasmania to some point further west. The Tamar? Whatever; if I want to do that too I have some serious catching up to do.
This guy lost out on the good menu. It’s a juvenile Pacific gull. Looks like a teenager to me.
This trip to Mts Ossa and Oakleigh was a trip in which I didn’t do anything I was supposed to do, but ended up doing wonderful alternatives, seeing some absolutely magnificent scenery (including the best wildflower display ever), and meeting heaps of incredibly nice people.
The forest within several kilometres of Pelion is superb.
So, for starters, I left on the “wrong” day. Originally, we were to leave on the Monday, so I had booked my dog into the kennel, and even delivered her, before I got news we were now to leave on the Tuesday (due to bad weather coming). But my dog was already gone, and I had ants in my pants. I decided to just weather the weather and set off anyway, do my own thing for a day, and then meet the others. As it turned out, A and T had decided similarly, so three of us set out early.
Dawn after rain
A and T elected to sleep in Pelion hut, reached after a few hours’ walking, but I unctuously declared that I was bushwalking, so would sleep in my tent, not in a hut. Tent pitched, the rainforest in all directions from the hut thoroughly explored, and several streams followed, I went down to the hut to be sociable. There were some terrific people in the hut, and I had lots of pleasant and interesting conversations until it was time to depart for bed, for which I had to wait for a break in the deluge.
All waterfalls in the area were pumping
The phrase “bucketing down” gained a new meaning that evening, as I waited for a pause in the tumultuous downpour to run the fair distance to my little isolated tent. I have never heard rain quite so loud, never seen sheets of rain quite so solid. Squadrons formed on the verandah to enjoy (and many, to try to photograph) the wild display. Conversation while it was happening was impossible.
Wildflower garden. Now we’re talking.
That night the mother of all storms rolled in. The thunder was roaring like a sick lion, the noise ricocheting from mountain wall to mountain wall in the audience of mountains surrounding us. The rain continued to flood the plain. I considered the fact that I was somewhat vulnerable lying there under trees should one of them get struck by the lightning that accompanied the noise, but, well, that is nature: threatening. I was aware of the danger, but also philosophical about its potential to harm. I have enormous respect for nature, so was not lying there like a fool thinking it could never affect me, or that I could somehow control it. What would be would be. Emanuel Kant would call the experience of us tenters “sublime” as we were taken into the realm of fear and our own vulnerability, yet emerged safely out the other side. Those in the hut barely noticed what they were in the middle of. Most had ear plugs in, and were also locked away from the flashing lights of electrical power. I am glad to have experienced nature in such a wild frenzy.
Ossa summit areaOssa summit area
During the night, whilst listening to the drama, I noticed that water was falling on my face. I reached for my torch and discovered it was sopping. In mild panic I rescued my beloved camera and gps device and put them as high as I could, but was not confident, as my face was still being splashed. I did my best. My sleeping bag was more than moist. An hour later, I notice that my pillow – that is, all my emergency dry clothes, in a drysack – were now also wet. Somehow I fell asleep anyway.
Donatia novae-zelandia was enthusiastically flowering in the summit area.
In the morning I awoke to the sight of a lake in my tent. Other plans I had made for this day to be spent at my will were now cancelled, as drying my stuff in the hut became my primary objective. First, however, I wanted to do something for exercise, so went up Mt Oakleigh in the rain (third time). The lush, mossy myrtle forest was magnificent in the mist. On the top rocks, the wind was blowing furiously and it was very cold. I had achieved my daily quota of exercise, so that was fine, and now I could try to dry things out to prevent hypothermia that night. High resolves cancelled, I moved into the hut. (No photos of Oakleigh; that might have killed my camera).
Richea scoparia, Ossa
The next wave of Overland Trail walkers entered: another group of really nice people with new friends to be made. They were most solicitous about my gear, and many helped me turn and rearrange items to get them dry. We chatted around the heater meanwhile – hardly unpleasant. I was anxious to finish as quickly as possible, as these people were wet from the day as well, so we all needed to dry things. Amongst the smiling faces was a friend of my daughter’s from primary school in Canberra. It was fabulous to catch up with him and his family. I was really warmed to see so many children on the trail happily experiencing this initiation ceremony into distance bushwalking. They were happy, loved to tell me about the birds and other aspects of nature they had seen. I loved meeting them.
Richea scoparia on the descent. To Cathedral Mountain.
The people we should have met passed through, sopping and freezing. Not one of the three of us joined them in the planned further hour and a half’s walking. I needed to get dry before I could get wet again. My tent was still a swimming pool. Two days down. No previous plans fulfilled.
Richea scoparia on the descent. To Mt Oakleigh.
On day three, the others were climbing Proteus. My tent needed attention, and Proteus hadn’t thrilled me the first time I climbed, so I wasn’t going to cry over that lost opportunity. I scooped NINE cups of water out of the tent and hoped that by the time I got back from Mt Ossa, which I had decided to climb as a shorter alternative, it would be dry, and I could join the others for Pelion West.
Richea scoparia; Ossa descent. To Oakleigh
I have never seen such a varied wildflower display on Ossa. I have climbed it seven times now but never have I seen it quite this colourful. I was floating on the wave of its beauty. Striated emu wrens flitted from bushtop to bushtop, and other birds I couldn’t see (or identify by their chirps) called to me and teased me. Apart from their twinkles and tweets, the bush was deliciously silent. I played on the summit, and on anything I could find on the way down. I didn’t want to leave the flanks of this mountain today. Luckily for me, my new friends from the hut were climbing up as I came down, so every twenty or so paces, I got to have another chat with people whose faces I now knew. It was a very sociable descent. Back at the saddle, I was still reluctant to leave, so walked in the opposite direction to prolong the excursion into flower heaven. I got back to Pelion Hut for lunch after 4 pm, feeling just a little tired. I needed lunch, quickly followed by dinner. I was in no mood to carry out my plan of packing up and walking two hours to join the others. “I can do that early in the morning”, I said to myself.
Oakleigh dawn
That night (after a third wave of OT walkers had arrived and befriended me), all of us were … er … “blessed”?.. with the booming thunder of a snorer, trying to compete with the recent storm. His noise lasted much longer, with a regularity that was utterly unnerving. I did a Lazarus, and moved my bed to the kitchen. In the morning I observed that four others had done likewise, We could still hear him through the closed door, of course, but at least the sound as a little muted.
Dawn Oakleigh
I was so lucky in the morning, as somebody bumped me, and I thus got to witness a superb dawn. The bumper later sheepishly apologised, but I pointed out that I would be forever grateful. If she hadn’t accidentally disturbed me, I would have missed that wonderful dawn. I had wanted to wake up for it, but was so tired after the many disturbances during the night that without her assistance, I would have missed it.
Melaleuca squamea had come into full profusion while I was watching rain. It likes the bog under Mt Pillinger.
Exhausted from lack of sleep, and perhaps having picked up a bug, I started feeling sick. I set out to join the others, as planned, but decided that I really didn’t have such a long day in me. It was time to get out. I turned around and returned to the hut. Yet another action that was not according to the orginal plan. My dog, picked up a day early, was thrilled at the unexpected day’s reprieve from the kennel. (It’s a great kennel, but she loves being home with me.) She sang with delight at my appearance, almost dislocating the shoulder of the carer fetching her.
As I drove towards Miena at the start of our adventure, the snow began to fall. The further I drove, the heavier it got. This was an exciting start to our adventure. But my mind asked: How cold would the forest be, bushbashing through new snow? Climbing steep slopes with ice-laden leaves dropping their bounty on our backs? Time would tell.
Snow, Central highlands
I unloaded my gear at the bunkhouse at Derwent Bridge, and cooked dinner, waiting for my friends. When they arrived, they brandished photos indicating that the snow was now settling. Tomorrow would be interesting. We huddled by the heater, exchanging news, storing up on warmth that we wouldn’t get on the morrow.
The next morning revealed a wondrous white world. I was so tempted to skip waterfall bagging and just photograph delicate rainforest leaves in the snow. They knew I would be like that, and kind of set a schedule that prevented me squandering the day on the “wrong” activity. Past fairyland we drove, with me aching to see such beauty but knowing I would regret dipping out on new waterfalls if I did.
Crossing the creek that our waterfalls would lie on, higher up.
The waterfalls we were to bag were just below the snow line, so at least we didn’t have to bother about little ice bombs dropping from the sky. This was actually my second attempt at these falls. On the first attempt, I had a broken hand, and got not much further than the start line. I didn’t dare risk a re-break. Some forests you can do with a broken bone, but not this one. Denied excuses this time, here I was, dreading crossing the creek below the main falls at the start of a day where the car thermometer read a mere 2 degrees, but trying to put on a brave face anyway. Luckily, the guys were no more eager than I was to get wet in such conditions, so we chose to do the three easier falls first, before tackling the mightily steep ones, where the slopes dropped at 89.9 degrees straight into the river below. Even the third of the easy ones would have some “interesting” moments.
Lower Nelson Step Falls in mossy glory
Such challenges were for later. At first we just enjoyed walking at a pace that allowed us to stay warm, passing through kangaroo ferns, Dicksonia antarctica and mossy nothofagus. There were a few fallen trees to negotiate, but not too many, and very little actual bush bashing was required. Some short steep drops added interest to the mix. We even happened upon some out-of-season fungi. But we were on a mission, so I just privately called “Hello” en passant and forged ahead on our goal of finding waterfalls.
Lower Nelson Step Falls
Any reluctance to forgo spending time with snow or fungi was quickly forgotten once the first of our waterfalls was reached, about 45 mins after leaving the main Nelson track. Sometimes I forget how wonderful waterfalls can be. At last I didn’t have to worry about time or holding anybody up. Out came Caedence’s tripod (and out came mine). Adrian is faster, using just his phone, but is totally happy to wait while we two do our thing with heavier, slower equipment. I take lots of shots with different f-stops and times, so I can determine my favourites later, while seeing the outcome in more detail on the computer.
Adrian and Caedence climbing between Lower and Middle FallsThe Middle Falls are sighted at last
The second waterfall was even more beautiful than the first. They felt terribly special, so hidden and yet so wonderful. They are part of the whole wider pleasure of needing a semi-challenging journey to get there; of not having the falls just being served on a ready-made NPWS dish. I like to have to work for my waterfalls. Stuff that comes too easily is not valued as highly. My brain and body both enjoy working for their outcomes. Anything too easy is boring.
Middle Nelson Step Falls up closer
More photos taken, more oohs and aahs uttered, and off we set for the most challenging of the climbs to the third and final fall in the series. Here the ground was very steep indeed, and long legs were required to make one of the climbs that offered a wide range of injuries if one missed and fell. Kindly, Adrian offered me a knee to place my foot on, and moral support by standing below me. (On the way back down, I used his shoulder to cut the journey short, as it were.) I would not have liked to have done that particular climb without a safety net below me, and amongst his many assets, Adrian is an excellent safety net.
Looking back down from the top of the Middle FallsClimbing. It wasn’t all a walk in the park.
I had cut breakfast short so as not to hold the others up. It was nearing midday and this animal that needs constant feeding was wilting. Why did these guys who are twice my size not need feeding? Why and how was their breakfast so small? At last we stopped for a snack, but the others had finished and I was only half way through mine. I knew we were about to enter some seriously tricky territory. I didn’t want to foul them out by not being able to do it, and I also didn’t want to just wait in the forest in the cold for them to come back. I also didn’t want to get so deeply into difficulty that I couldn’t get out by myself. I had had a snack but was not satisfied. How many hours would this bit take? I decided to quit while I was ahead. If it was doable for me, we would come back some other time, but for now, they could be more daring without me and I wouldn’t have to feel guilty about dragging them backwards. I pulled the plug and went a got myself soup, fruit buns, juice and coffee to quiet the beastie within. It began to rain. I was not unhappy to head for home and collect Tessie a day earlier than expected. As I entered the kennel, I could hear her yelping with joy at the sound of my approach.
Upper Nelson Step FallsTasmanian Native Hen (Gallinula mortierii) plus chick on the way home
From the moment I heard that the nationals were in Armidale, I was excited. We lived there for five years, and both our children were born there. Of course I wanted to go – but also, of course, I wanted to compete in the nationals anyway. The Australian Championships and the Australian 3-Days are the two big events of each year, and the two events that determine your national ranking. Quite apart from having the best races and competition, giving great excitement to those of us who love this sport, they are also the best chance to catch up with old friends from across the years, as they cast the biggest and best net.
Eastern rosella. I managed to shoot quite a few birds in between racingEastern rosella
I had been careless in two of the three days last Easter, and had paid a big price, being excessively lucky to finish on the podium. I was thus pretty focussed with regard to the nationals, wanting to redeem my lost self-esteem and prove to myself that I could do nice, clean races again. Winning would be nice. However, right at the last minute w.r.t entires, my old friend-but-competition-foe from the 1980s, with whom I have had countless exciting experiences, fun shared times on national squads, teams and training camps, and endless races, Jenny Bourne, entered our age class. Jenny is a force to be reckoned with. She has won four Australian elite titles, and four Australian 3-day elite titles, as well as at least one (if not more – I can’t find out in google) World Masters title in orienteering. I have won many World Masters titles, but they are in sports other than orienteering, and that’s what we were to race in.
After racing, it was fun to spend time on my friends’ farmFarm fun. The kids are obviously exhausted after racing.
Given that I thought winning would be nice, I thought I’d have a much easier time of it if I ran an age class younger than my own (yes, that’s how good she is; and yes, my inkling was correct when I compare times). I toyed with that idea for a few seconds, but decided that was the coward’s way out. So, I stayed where I was. It was gong to be a battle royal, and I would only do well if I ran my very, very best race, and even then, Jenny would probably beat me. Also in our age class was another friend from competitions in the 80’s, Sue Key, just back from getting in the A-finals of the World Masters. (The Key family is the “Jess Fox” family of orienteering.) Yes, the same old three that battled it out forty years ago were to repeat the encounter this year. Not surprisingly, we rather dominated the podium when medals were being handed out. I find it absolutely wonderful that three of the top elites from the 1980s are still competing, albeit now in age class. (Others from teams of that era are also competing, but in younger age classes). Thus I caught up with heaps of these friends. It’s such fun to see them again. Very, very few of us have dropped out.
Getting painted up for the highlight of ASOC: the relays.
Sprints were conducted on campuses in Armidale (TAS and UNE). The main bush races were on a private property called Glenburnie. This setting was magical in extremis, especially for a granite freak like me. I don’t quite know why, but I have a real love affair with huge granite boulders. Looking at the tiny tots (1-10 year olds) crawling up and down boulders twenty times their height, I can see other granite freaks in the making. Controls tended to be hiding behind these boulders. After the race we all stood or sat around, eating, chatting, waiting for other family members to finish, and just enjoying the scene of open eucalypt forest littered with shapely giants of soft grey.
Having fun on the boulders after racing
As with other big events in Orienteering, the purpose of doing races is only part of the story. Nonetheless, with the nationals, if you do all the events, you complete seven long-distance races, four of which you really care about, in nine days. Somehow, it gets done.
Mornings were often misty. I had fun photographing while the others slept.I never tire of seeing galahs
There were over 800 competitors, not all of whom did that many races, but most did, so that’s a mighty number of fit people in this sport. (Competitors’ ages range from those in W10, the youngest of which are usually 7 or 8, to the oldest, the cluster of people racing M or W85. They are aged between 85 and 90. Veritable gangs of M/W10N also go around courses, but with their parents to guide them; N stands for Novice. They still have their L-plates on, and some seem only recently to have left nappies behind. This category is not competitive, and everybody gets a prize [but not a prized medal].) The main races take part on the two bookend weekends. The three mid-week races comprise the ASOC (Australian Schools Orienteering Championships) and, for those of us not young enough to be on our state school team (or not old enough in other cases), there is a different event, this year called the Thunderbolt Classic. I always treat the mid-week races as training runs. The weekend races are what count. However, even so, all are distance races.
ASOC relays. They’re off. No, they can’t just follow. Nobody knows who is on their course … and then the courses divide anyway.
This year was little Abby’s first experience of the nationals, and it was Gus’s first year on the state team. How would eight-year-old Abby cope (a) without her mum, and (b) racing that often? She was perfect on both counts. All the kids were. The four in our group ( 3 x 8-year olds and 1 x 9) all raced each event and raced well. And for après-O they more than often ran up boulders or ran around paddocks. We visited a few watery places, but we also had times doing quieter craft work, playing cards or reading books.
Competing.The last runner heads for the finish of the junior girls’ relay, followed by the state flag and her delighted team mates.
Gus was thrilled to make the team, and he told me he had a very happy time. The teams consist mostly of high-school students in two divisions: under 16, and over, and they do all the sorts of things that over-excited clusters of teenagers do (eg, seeing which state can fit the most team members into a telephone booth). A big highlight seems to be painting their faces with their state colours on the relay day – warriors preparing for war.
My first ever sighting of a Red-rumped parrotEnthusiastic Crimson rosellas around the feed dish
And now it is all over. I had 930 photos to process, and am relieved to have finished. I have almost an equal number of birdie shots as of orienteering. Many competitors report having post-O depression once the party is over. Little kids and big ones wave to their friends: “Bye; see you at Easter”, and they start preparing and training for the next important event. My legs are still pretty flat, but after two days’ rest, I am back, training for Easter, waiting for the next exciting battle with Jenny. Jenny, Sue and I will in all probability be the Aus team for our age group in the coming Oceania Championships. We are looking forward to that!
Every time somebody says they want to go walking with me, I feel so fortunate. This weekend was a family one: a three-generation special, and our chosen mountain (at Kirsten’s choosing) was Hugel. Great choice. I haven’t been there since my early days of Abelling, when I climbed it in glary conditions with a bad camera. This time, we slept up high, nice and close, so we could linger on top until the light gave us glorious conditions for our descent.
Ramaria botrytoides
We wanted beautiful light and plenty of time for our plans, so drove down the night before to Derwent Bridge. I had no idea that we would be the last guests checked in before the Hotel closed the next day. We felt very sad about this!!! That Hotel is a Tassie icon for bushwalkers. I fear for its character at the hands of NRMA who will doll it up for tourists’ dubious tastes.
Hygrocybe reesiae
Thus at 8.45, which is early for my family if not for me, we took our first steps along the track to Shadow Lake. The fungi were superb; the track, mossy and lush. We all greatly enjoyed it. That section took 1 hr 15, so I was very hungry by the time we arrived at the beach Kirsten had in mind. Time for a snack, a drink and a shoulder break.
Climbing up to little Hugel
Refreshed, on we went past Forgotten Lake, where the steep climb up the escarpment begins. Steep climbs are fun, even if we did take it pretty slowly. Our packs were heavy. I had my tripod and camera equipment aboard as I was hoping to photograph an aurora, and like the tripod for dawn and dusk at all times. Kirsten was carrying a lot to make sure Gus enjoyed it.
The last part of the climb, above Dip Lake (a nameless tarn).
We bypassed Little Hugel, saving it for the next day, and continued on to a nameless tarn, where, despite freezing temperatures, Kirsten and Gus swam while I tried to photograph the occasion. Neither of them lasted more than a second, and I was still trying to get a good angle when they had already bounced with astonishing eagerness out of the gelid water. We declared it an early lunch, and they tried to warm back up in the sun while we ate.
Hugel summit
The next section did not last long, so soon enough we were selecting our real estate for the night, a decision not based on anything mildly practical like water availability, but rather, on view. It so happened there was a little water nearby, but I was prepared to go back to wherever water might have been in order to enable a good view.
One of many fabulous summit views
Site chosen, tents up, a snack had and it was time to set out. Gus was still going well. He had done his first ever bushbashing with a heavy (for him) pack. Hugel looked nice and close, but we knew that could be deceptive, especially with a pre-teen on board.
Surveying the view during the descent
We walked along the ridge, and then attacked the rocks. We all felt the cairns were perfectly placed: not so near each other that you felt like a puppet or a robot, but often enough so that you had feedback that your route was the one intended. There was room for error and experimentation, which we appreciated.
This is what I came for
We stayed a nice long time on top: we had plenty of time for the descent and we wanted to enjoy the low light to come, so stayed there until it began to happen.
Perfect conditions.
I was thrilled to see young Gus getting out his camera and photographing aspects of the scenery that appealed to him. People who are sensitive to the beauty around them are usually people who are keen to protect and preserve it. He also chose to photograph quite a lot of fungi.
Having fun on the rocks
The day cooled down very quickly. I tested for an aurora before I turned in for the night, but nothing was happening. The other two slept in our old Macpac Olympus, a beautifully comfortable tent, albeit a heavy one. My tent, on the other hand, allowed far too much cold mist to circulate around me, and the wind to brush my face far too often. Bad choice of tent. I was not surprised when I tested conditions later to find the mist had closed in. I did a few checks, but ascertained it wasn’t even worth getting up for dawn, which is not a bad thing, as that wet, cold air was not to my liking, and the wind was pretty stiff by dawn.
Day 2. Approaching Little Hugel
Breakfast was a cosy affair in their tent, but packing up was pretty miserable. I even had trouble separating the pole segments in order to dismantle my tent. I was relieved to be setting out, knowing that the exercise would warm me up.
Summit view
We liked the mist surrounding Little Hugel, so knew we would enjoy that small climb, and we were right.
Beautiful little fungi with guttation
There were lots of fungi in the forest to make the return journey exciting. We spent time with the best of them, but made sure we were fast enough for a nice big hamburger at the Hungry Wombat. Kirsten was excited to discover they could even do a gluten-free version for her. Not every such place is so accommodating.
