Category: Abel

Posted on

Oakleigh 2018 Jan

Mt Oakleigh. Jan 2018
A trip I was going to be on was cancelled due to bad weather, so I determined this was the weekend I would sleep on Mt Oakleigh. It would rain on my way up, but, hopefully, I’d get good views next morning. I checked the wind forecast, which was fine, and, just on the off-chance, dashed off a message to one of my IG friends, who said she’d like to come. An adventure was on.

I have done a bit of waterfall bagging with this friend, and we have fun together. I realised as we progressed along our way on Saturday, however, that this was her first overnighter with a tent, that she was feeling a bit nervous, and that perhaps climbing a mountain on your first attempt at sleeping in the wild was maybe a bit too wild. I offered her the alternative that if she was too worried about the conditions up there (they didn’t look at all friendly from below), then I’d go with her to New Pelion Hut, and then climb the mountain alone. No, no. She wanted to come. On we continued. It was nice that she trusted me to keep her alive, as a wild mountain is a rather confronting beast when you meet it face to face. Secretly, I was worried about her lack of equipment in the face of the cold weather up there, but I was also pretty sure I could help her through a crisis. Her lycra tights were not keeping her at all warm. She had no beanie, and no spare shoes, but she did have dry socks for overnight, and a decent sleeping bag. My tent takes two at a pinch, so if she was freezing, I could invite her into mine to warm up.

Her voice became a bit more anxious when she realised that I had not camped up here before, and that I didn’t have a clue whether we would find a spot, as I don’t know anyone who has ever camped there. “What happens if there’s nowhere to camp?”, she enquired. “Then we come back down,” I replied, which was not, I presume, good news when you are already very tired, but that is always my plan.
“What is there’s no water on top?”
“Then I come back down to collect it for both of us.” That answer was more welcome. “That’s why I keep pointing out sources of water when we pass them, as I am timing how long from the last seen water to the top in case I do have to do that. And I have never yet failed to find some way of pitching two tents on top. One just has to be creative.”
That sounded good, but there does surely, have to be a first time when there is absolutely nothing. I didn’t add that.

The conditions for pitching up there were not exactly five-star quality, and my friend quite justifiably wanted to be near me for security, so we were looking for flat ground for two that did not exist. We found the best available real estate, which would not have sold for much as it was merely a patch of bush where the scrub was not too prickly or tall. We threw our tents over the bushes, pinning the corners to the ground, and somehow managed to get a quarter decent pitch that would stay up all night. Both of us had tent floors that followed an artistic wave pattern. I actually found my wave quite comfy, as it was at least soft, and one of the ups acted as a pillow.

It was almost a relief that sunset was a fizzer, as we both had truly frozen feet, and the only thing either of us could think of was the joy of taking off wet boots and socks and getting into a dry sleeping bag. If anything good happened to the mountains out there at dusk, we don’t know about it.

The wind flapped our tents all night. Neither of us got any substantial sleep, so the alarms for sunrise at 5.15 were not exactly welcome. I poked my head out. “Na. No colour. I’m ‘sleeping’ for another 20.”
At 5.35 there was a tiny hint of pink, so I felt obliged to go out and see if anything nice could happen. It did, and we were both happy with our results. Now that she had survived her first night out, and on a mountain at that, my friend was very happy. We both walked well on the return journey, and were back at the car before midday, keen for our next adventure. I learned that after a night like that, I should have cappuccino before driving the solo section. I fell asleep at the wheel a mere kilometre from home. Luckily, I was fighting sleep so hard that I was only doing about 35 kms/hr just in case, and, more luckily, there was no oncoming traffic, as my steering swerved me to the right of the road once I dropped off.  It is very, very unnerving to do this. You have the insane belief that if you fight sleep, you can win. I am still in a bit of shock, even though no harm came of it.

Another sad theory that was tested this weekend was the one told to me by Telstra, namely, that 000 would work anywhere, as it uses a different wavelength. I got a flat tyre on the drive in, and needed RACT. There was no reception. 000 did not work. You are no doubt laughing at a stupid, stereotypical woman who can’t change a tyre. I know what to do, but there are a few problems: (i) I am not strong enough to pull the spare tyre out of its hole (ii) I cannot push the spanner to undo the nuts. I stood on it. Nothing happened. I jumped on it. Nothing (I weighed 43 kgs when I checked at Christmas [before the pudding ha ha]). I went to the very edge to get maximum leverage, and only then could I begin to budge it whilst jumping on it. The insurmountable problem, however, is that if I did somehow get the old wheel off, there is no way on this earth that I could lift the new wheel into place. Luckily, a good samaritan (well, two) happened to drive up (Ashley and Noelene), and they helped me, whilst instructing me at the same time, but realised along with me that if alone, I would not be capable of getting out of this fix, and the problem that 000 does not actually work all over Tasmania is rather daunting. There are places where one could starve hoping for a good samaritan to drive nearby.

Posted on

Ossa 2017 Dec

Mt Ossa Dec 2017.

I was mesmerised by my visit to Mt Ossa back in December 2013, when I took a Swedish friend up there to sleep on the summit. What astonished me, amongst other things, was the beauty of the flowers along the way. (I was also captivated by the brilliant views, of course.) I hadn’t realised December was such a magic month in that area, and vowed I’d return with a better camera and a tripod for mach 2 some day. Unfortunately, it’s taken four years to find the opportunity.

This time, there was to be no Elin, and, worse, no Bruce. Off I set anyway, not sure how things would be. I can’t predict my moods these days.

The first part went pretty well, and I was in at Pelion Hut in under three hours, despite my heavy camera gear, and definitely ready for lunch. I hadn’t got away from the carpark until 10 o’clock, so it was not an early lunch. Light drizzle had meant that stops along the way were not really wanted, so I was in need of a good rest as well as a decent feed. I ate my salad roll with gusto. Drizzle changed to steady rain. The world turned dark grey. My spirits are not buoyant enough to deal with that at present. I decided I should turn around and go home, and count this as a good training exercise. I didn’t want anything in this weather other than sulking chez moi with my dog.

I set out for home, but then decided that was silly. Set out for the pass and decided I really didn’t want that either. Such vacillation. To and fro I went with each change off mind, trying to imitate a laden yoyo. In the end, I decided that I should start climbing Pelion Gap, to stop looking so stupid, and to try to warm up with the height gain before I made any big decisions (I was by now freezing with all that sitting around). Once I was underway, I talked myself into believing that I should at least go as far as the pass, even if not the summit, and maybe tomorrow would be more inspiring than today.

I slowed down the pace and ambled up the slope, enjoying the mossy banks beside the little creeklets, flowing happily no doubt due to the rain. The lush forest was pleasant in the misty conditions. Right near the top, just before one bursts out into the more open area, I had the pleasure of encountering a group of six LWC (Launceston Walking Club) members who had camped the previous night at the hut, and had that day climbed Ossa in the mist. In answer to my query about flowers, they reported that if I went high enough, I would find some (I had been deeply disappointed by the lack of them lower down – part of my general despondence). It was lovely to see people I know and to get warm hugs – and inspiriting to be told the flowers I wanted were to be found after all.

I didn’t stop at the gap, but kept climbing through the drizzle, in search of flowers. I found, I saw, I photographed. A strong wind joined the rain, and it was far from pleasant – and my socks and shoes were pretty sodden – but I was completely happy once I saw the colours of the scoparia flowers I had come for. I managed to find a sheltered spot for my tent – not easy when you’re so high with wind gusting from every direction, or so it seemed – and, in between photographing flowers and sunset, cooked and ate dinner in the protection of my tent.

The sky was not colourful at sunrise (or sunset), although the golden rays of dawn lit the flowers beautifully. I have to admit I was SORELY tempted to stay in my warm sleeping bag and not venture into the frost outside, donning wet socks and shoes to do so, but I told myself I’d gone to a lot of effort to be here, and that really, it would be dumb to stay in my tent. I begrudgingly roused myself and put on every layer of clothing I possessed, wiped away the coating of frost on the tent, and got on with the day’s business. Of course, I was glad I did. One can stay in a warm bed almost any time, but one can only get up and witness sunrise on Tasmania’s highest mountain on very few occasions of one’s whole life. And life, I know, is a privilege not to be squandered.

Posted on

Twin Spires 2017 Nov

Twin Spires Nov 2017


Twin Spires as seen from Cathedral Mountain.
The mountain called Twin Spires is right next door to Cathedral Mountain, and it would thus be pretty odd to climb one without the other. Twin Spires is the Abel, so I guess if you only had time for one, it would be the one you’d do. I am biased, as I camped on Cathedral and enjoyed the golden hours of sunrise and sunset there, so prefer those views, but Twin Spires was still a very wonderful peak. It is just a fraction less in the thick of the drama than its friend. It does have a tarn very near the summit, so would be worth seeing if it had great views for sunrise at some later date.

For general directions on how to get here, see the post on Cathedral Mountain (www.natureloverswalks.com/cathedral-mountain/). I have reposted the map below.

Posted on

Cathedral Mountain 2017 Nov

Cathedral Mountain Nov 2017

I have wanted to sleep on Cathedral Mountain for years, and am very pleased to have done it, and yet my venture caused me to question the assumed power of the wilderness to heal our sorrows and / or our soul.
Can wilderness do this? The wilderness presents to us infinite sublimity that we can use to transport our being outwards to the universe, but it is not a force with a mind. It can only heal us if we let it, and allow that infinitude to bring us peace.
Wilderness exists as an objective and real part of our environment, indeed, but the value of that thing and its meaning for us depends on what we bring to it. For the wilderness to offer me healing, I need to meet it half way, as it were, and permit the expectations and connotations I give it to do their  work. I need to lose myself in that beauty – to allow it to overwhelm me so I can lose myself. On the weekend, I could perceive the wondrous sublimity, I loved my little tarn and my magic view, but I still felt empty. I couldn’t lose myself at all or join a wider universe. I was stuck in my own misery.

A long time ago, back when I was an international athlete, I thought that nature had the power to completely satisfy me. I remember clearly the day that debunked this theory: I sat on a rock up very high above the dramatic and impressive Aletschgletcher and looked out at infinite space. This was the quintessence of sublimity, and yet all I wanted at that moment was to have Bruce beside me, sharing that magnificence – not necessarily saying anything at all, just being there, sharing. And so I realised that it is not nature per se, but nature in the context of meaningful relationships that I find to be so wonderful.

And so it is hardly surprising that there, on top of Cathedral Mountain last weekend, witnessing a beautiful display of, first, a golden sunset and, next morning, a thrilling sunrise with pink mountains above white cottonball fluff, I felt far less moved by nature’s wonder than is normally the case. I have lost half of who I am, the person who defined how I saw myself for most of my life and who helped mould who I became; the person who gave me incredible freedom by granting me his love.

In seeing our relationships as the most important aspect of our lives, I am hardly alone. I am reminded of Goethe’s Faust, who sought fulfilment in a variety of sources (learning, magic, nature and more) and yet, who found it in the simplest of solutions: in the love of Gretchen. In a similar yet very different vein, C.S. Lewis whose whole life revolved around reading and writing, found no solace after his wife’s death in the act of reading. Our relationships are like a taste-enhancer, lending flavour and zang to anything we devour. Lose a meaningful relationship, and everything becomes bland and uninteresting. The view from on top of Cathedral Mountain was hardly bland or uninteresting, but, for once, it could not pull me wholly out of myself and give me that enjoyable feeling of merging with nature I so often enjoy on a summit. I am fighting to retain my self in the presence of huge forces; it is hardly surprising that I can’t give to nature right now. And if I can’t give, then neither, of course, can I receive.


And so And so it was that with the deep sorrow of losing Bruce operating below the surface of everything I do, the extreme beauty of Cathedral Mountain, although it moved me, failed to heal my sorrow or to transport me to infinite places where I could feel soothed. Not now.


Only family and close people can soothe me right now. Later, things will change. I am still glad I went.

 The problem, I guess, is that in the past, when up a mountain, even when solo, my solitude has occurred within the wider context of a waiting Bruce at home, who would be pleased to see me on my return, would want to hear stories of my adventures and to share in my photos.
The great poet, John Donne, used the image of a protractor to describe how it was between him and his wife: one partner stayed at the centre while the other one roamed; both were joined while apparently separated. This is also a fitting image to describe the way it was for us. I climbed while Bruce stayed at home, joined in spirit whilst prevented physically by his illness. I guess you could say I was only ever carrying out a pretended solo. Now, for the first time, my summits are truly alone.

But you, lucky reader, can presumably visit this wonderful summit without these cares, and the majesty will have more power to impress you. Getting to the top involves a combination of track following and navigation. A rough (and not always distinct) path leads from the carpark at the end of the Lake Rowallan Road to the beautiful Grail Falls, after which a cairned route takes over, getting you as far as Tent Tarn. If you are not a confident navigator, you should stop here (or even earlier, by one of the other beautiful lakes). From Tent Tarn to the top, there is a route which is cairned, but the cairns are not always as close together as you might like and you do need to know what you’re doing in between their guidance. You need to be happy about branching out and not caring if you don’t find any more cairns today. (For the climb of the next day, Twin Spires, see separate post,viz:
www.natureloverswalks.com/twin-spires/).

 

Posted on

Legges Tor 2017 Aug

Legges Tor  20 August 2017.


Does going to a place at roughly the same time two years in a row turn it into an annual event? I hope so, ’cause I’d really like to think of our winter summit of  Ben Lomond (Legges Tor, as the particular high point on that massif is known) as a yearly occurrence.



It feels so high up there. You are on Tasmania’s second highest point, and you can somehow feel it – which is good, as each time we do it, we can see nothing much beyond the nearest boulder. You sense your height, your exposure to the elements, the fact that there is nothing of your height anywhere to the perceptible east or west. If you drew a line due west, the first point as high as you would be in Argentina. If you drew it east, it would be Chile. Directly south, there is nothing, and directly north, … well, I am still chasing that one.


Kosciusko is one degree further east, so you would bypass it, and proceed north, I can only assume until you hit New Guinea. You may have to get to Russia before you get something as high, and even then, I am not sure of exactly what. I am still trying to find out. Work in progress. If I get some knowledgeable information, I’ll update this post. I’d love to have this exact, as it greatly interests me. Google isn’t being very helpful. The point is not that Legges Tor is a whopper in terms of height, but that it is exposed to the elements up there, and the prevailing winds coming in from the west are unhindered in their path from America to us.



And the real point is that summitting it in winter is jolly good fun!