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Western Arthurs 2017 Jan. More rain + snow


Most of us who love bushwalking do so because we love nature, and one of the things we love about nature is its ephemerality, and its unpredictability. We can never count on a repetition of a beautiful moment. Its adventitious arrival thrills us precisely because it cannot be arranged or designed by us.


We always feel ourselves particularly blessed to have been allowed to see such a spectacle. But equally, and because we do not get to boss nature around, it sometimes throws weather or events at us that are perhaps not what we would have ordered had we been allowed to do so. We have to accept this aspect of nature as well as the parts we revel in – and, in fact, many of us take a perverse delight in the wild side of nature anyway, knowing it’s part of the whole package that we adore.


Those of us on the recent HWC expedition to the Western Arthurs had to take this on board. Our intention had been to traverse the whole range. For several of us, this was not the first, or even the second, attempt at doing this. First, we had to delay our start by two days because it was snowing and freezing up there, making it unpleasant and even dangerous in spots. And then, while we were up there, new weather reports promised a repetition of this, combined with howling winds. This was not a week to be doing tricky climbing, or to be camping up high. We put our tails between our legs, and retreated, yet again thwarted by the conditions. I don’t mind being out-trumped by nature. I like to think humans are demonstrably not as grand and in control as we presume ourselves to be. Perhaps a little more (and helpful) respect for forces greater than ourselves can emerge from such encounters.


So, what are some results emerging from this weather, other than our turning around and doing yet another descent of Moraine A? Well, all the rain preceding our trip meant that the notoriously muddy Port Davey track was in fine form, with excellent depths of black squelch to be fallen into by the unsuspecting walker, thinking that he or she was stepping onto a piece of ground (wet, black, sodden) like all the other bits of ground. Plomp. In they go. Boots, gaiters, pants all became coated in a thick layer of ooze. I couldn’t pull my overpants off when I got hot as mud filled the zip and it wouldn’t move. Oh well. The positive side of this is that carrying water was unnecessary: it was readily available at almost every step of the journey. (Despite this, tent sites were not too squelchy.)


One had to be very careful about where one pitched one’s tent, as the howling winds announced their presence in rowdy terms. The winds changed direction and force during the night too, catching out certain walkers that we met. Everything became just a little bit more difficult.


It was pretty cold for summer. The lakes did not score swimmers. In fact, my beanie was on my head for almost the whole time – day and night. My coat never came off once, and most of every day I wore both my padded coat and my Event Anorak to keep out the wind. I also wore an icebreaker the entire trip.


I would like to say that a positive aspect of this weather was moody mist and dark, interesting clouds. However, I must say that I found the sky difficult to photograph this trip: it was just a little bit too light, and, as I was on a supposedly long expedition, I hadn’t brought my full frame camera with GND filters to darken things down. I struggled to avoid washed out areas.


I didn’t get to climb any new mountains or tread any new paths, but, hey, a party that only has people you know is not a bad party. I reclimbed things, and explored areas that I knew more thoroughly. I also got to meet new people – both in our group, and amongst the others who happened to be camped near us, or whom we met on the track. Some along the track that I met wanted to complain about the mud, but, really, it is not such a bad thing, as it helps keep the numbers down, and to deter many of the people who couldn’t actually cope with the real Western Arthurs, the high, ferocious, untamed bit “up there”. (The severity of Moraine A also helps in this regard). Take away that mud, attract even larger droves of people in there, and the place will be ruined. It’s already overcrowded to a disturbing degree.


In the course of our trip, we encountered a walker without a map, one without any kind of a rain jacket, people using a kind of tarp-shelter rather than a tent, many people who didn’t own thermal or woollen gear but were relying on cotton garments to keep them warm, people who didn’t own down bags, and many, many people who had no idea of the weather reports. This area is too popular for some of its users’ own good, I fear. If you want to visit the Western Arthurs, do yourself a favour and go to a reputable bushwalking shop to discuss your gear, and please also consult the excellent website run by the Bureau of Meteorology, both before you leave, and in high places when up there, so you can get an update. Knowing what to expect, and reacting appropriately to bad reports, is very important. It goes without saying that a map and compass are essential. This is not continental Europe: there are no cute yellow signs up there, and there are no splashes of red and white paint on rocks. When the mist closes in, it is very easy to get totally disoriented, even with a compass! And once the bad weather arrives, you may not even meet anyone who can help you, as they will be either sheltering in a tent somewhere, or they will have cleared out, to try again another time.

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Castle Crag / Falling Mountain 2016 Jan

Falling Mountain and Castle Crag. Feb 2016

View from Castle Crag, with Pelion East, Pillinger and Cathedral in the background.
To climb Falling Mountain, the notes Angela and I had suggested we should head from the clearing below Du Cane Gap towards the rocks from the latest fall off the southern end of the mountain, so we did precisely that, departing that bearing when the bush got thicker than we liked. When we left the direct bearing, we headed a bit right (north), climbing or contouring as the best leads through the scrub dictated (no longer using compass). Eventually this method took us to a wonderful lead of pineapple grass that made easy passage in a green path upwards to the final little climb that popped us out on top, much faster than anticipated in 1 hr 17 from our tents, drying down in the open clearing below. I photographed here, at the highest rock on this part of the mountain, five minutes away, and again at Castle Crag, a nine-minute saunter further on across alpine grasses and a bit of rock.


The route being described in the narrative
Rather than just retrace our footsteps, we agreed to try something different and just drop off Castle Crag. The boulders were surprisingly huge and the going not as kind as our original route, so we decided to sidle across to meet our ascent track. I was leading at this stage and concentrating on the job, using a kind of animal instinct that kicks in when I’m climbing, just following what some non-verbal part of my being feels is the way to go, sensing passages through the maze of rocks when one of the smaller (football size) rocks I trod on became dislodged and catapulted down the mountain, whacking my foot en passant. I writhed in pain, hyperventilating badly, vision blurred, dizzy with shock. Uncharacteristically, I reached for my pack to grab a painkiller. Whoops. They were in the big pack way down there. Angela’s were in the same place. (At least my EPIRB was with me. At this stage, I didn’t know if anything was broken, but found it hard to image that a blow of that force would not break something.)

“OK, no painkillers. We need to get moving quickly. If I’m to get through this, I need to start moving, and now. If I rest, I’ll stiffen up and never budge from here.”

Castle Crag summit cairn, with Ossa and Pelion East behind
Cautiously, gingerly, I put weight on the now swelling blob at the end of my leg and tucked in behind Angela, who was left with the job of choosing a route that would be kind to a one-footed friend. I didn’t feel like exerting the brainpower needed for such matters, and concentrated on using the foot as a stable plank, tucked in behind Angela. Most surprisingly, we were down in 1 1/2 hours. It felt like much longer than that, but my foot was coping well with weight bearing.

Sunset at Narcissus Hut (Lake St Clair)
 
Next morning the sunrise was exactly what I ordered. I do love a good mist

I didn’t dare inspect the damage to my foot until Narcissus Hut. I thought if I looked and saw what I was bound to see, I’d feel sorry for myself, and maybe not be able to go any further. Now, I must say, I have always had the policy that if you are going to hurt a lot on the inside, it is the best thing to have an outer appearance that is commensurate with the inner torture. My foot did me proud. It was grossly distorted and swollen, and coloured a rather nasty combination of red, purple and dark grey. I felt a true martyr.

Leeawuleena, the mellifluous aboriginal name for Lake St Clair that matches its visual beauty with soothing sounds
Despite this magnificent display of swelling and colour on my ankle, I can report nothing is broken. For this, I can only thank my wonderful, solid, leather boots that shielded me from the full force of the bash, and the fact that the impact must have been pretty well back on the foot, so I am extremely lucky in the placement of the collision. My doctor advised rest.

“How many hours do I have to rest for?” I asked (neatly eschewing mention of days or weeks).
She knew the implication of my choice of words, shook her head and smiled wryly (which is why she’s my doctor).
“Twenty four / forty eight hours?” , she said with rising intonation and another smile. I got the feeling she was carrying out a kind of barter: What number can I say that will not be so great that this person rejects it altogether, yet not so small as to be nugatory? She chose a good number.

Deal. I’ll obey that. I did Pilates instead of running and only walked the dog.

Dawn light
I do not feel unlucky at all to have been hit by a falling rock coming off Falling Mountain: on the contrary, I feel very much the opposite, and elatedly relieved at all the things that could have been, but weren’t. I will enjoy the rest of my summer’s bushwalking with even greater gusto.

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Spires 2017 Conical Mt, Shining Mt, Pokana Peak

The Spires. Jan 2017


First night on the Spires trip, camping on the Pleiades.
I never set out for The Spires confidently expecting to reach the goal area, let alone the summit (despite our excellent leader). Too many things can go wrong in such unforgiving, wild country; too many others whom I deeply respect have failed one or more times to get there. Weather conditions, for a start, can wrest victory from your grasp, as the trek in is long and hard, and weather can make a huge difference when that is the case. But if you don’t set out, you haven’t a hope of succeeding, so our packs were on our backs, ready to give it a try, and if we didn’t get there, hey, we would have a fabulous experience in the wilderness anyway.


First night on the Spires trip, camping on the Pleiades. 
Certainly, things didn’t begin in a way that engendered hope had I only been there to achieve summits. We had a few glitches on the first morning getting ourselves into position that set our programme back half a day, so we only made it to a saddle part way up the steep haul onto the Pleiades Range before we were obliged to end the day. Here there was camping to be had: well, there was fresh, running water the other side of the saddle, and the ground was kind of level. There was button grass everywhere, and bushes that did not respond at all to my request that they flatten themselves for my comfort. It was impossible to cook in such a bumpy, bushy vestibule, but the weather was mild, and we congregated on rocks to prepare our meals. The mood was jovial. Sunset that night was wonderful. I had an unexpectedly good night’s sleep.


Looking along the spine of the Pleiades.

Day 2.
The following morning, we set out to finish our climb up to the Pleiades Ridge. This is very, very steep country and the bush was thick, the going hard.  Some members struggled, but thanks to a team effort, we all reached the ridge, and continued on our way along it, which seemed fine enough until we hit the final cliffy mound (huge) near the end before we would make a slight “left hand turn” at a different knob, continuing towards Conical Mountain (heading NNW, while the ridge leading to Pokana Peak deviated east). But first, as said, we needed to get around the final knob before the “intersection”.


Looking along the spine of the Pleiades.
We chose right. There was even a pad of sorts. It was so steep, I was grunting as I pulled myself up, and was accused of trying to have a tennis match. The last time I grunted like that was climbing up to Slatters Peak in early 2013. I’m not sure if it was the steepness (and extreme weight of my pack), or just the fact that my protracted illness of the last three months has robbed me of too much precious condition, but, whatever the cause, each major heave upwards elicited a noise worthy of Maria Sharapova (well, not quite that bad). This part of the route had a few spots where there was a very steep drop below our ledge. It’s funny how different varieties of exposure have altering reactions from people. Because there were trees below, and bushes to cling to, I felt fine, although, of course, I did feel the need to be cautious. Somehow the trees under me reduced any sense of great threat.


Looking down to the lake for night 2.
There is a small lake below the ridgeline after one has waved goodbye to Pokana Peak, and this was to be our campsite for the second night. As we descended to it, I noticed a lovely little beach with small sandy shore far below and hoped to camp there. Unfortunately, this spot was a bog, with a squelching, sinking vestibule area and button-grass lumps in abundance where my body should lie, but there was nowhere else to go by now, so I pitched and hoped it wouldn’t rain, which would turn my little depressed area into a tarn. I cooked on a nearby rock, joined  by Johnny, whose tent was nearby. Our rocky kingdom was fine.


Rohan and David survey lakes two and three, beyond our own one, on Day 3

Day 3.
At last, after three days’ steady, and fairly exhausting climbing and pulling and heaving and high-stepping, we were heading for our first actual mountain (still laden with our heavy packs), and, joy of joys, it was an Abel: Conical Mountain. It still looked like a giant ahead as we snailed our way towards it. I was very happy to at last have a summit under my belt, and an Abel at that, but the big one lay ahead.


Me, above Lake Curly, looking towards Mt Curly.
Shining Mountain is lower than Conical. That should give heart, but the drop between the two did not. There was more height to gain, and more bush to fight for my out-of-condition body. We celebrated the views from Shining fairly early in the afternoon. The day was now very hot, and progress was like a pyrrhic victory in a battle.


Dale on a fun spot beyond the summit of Conical Mountain.
Shortly after summitting this one, our noble leader pointed out that descent into the valley way, way below (almost out of sight, the land was so steep), would be a hot and unpleasant affair on such a day. He said it would be possible to camp up there and still climb The Spires on the morrow.


Shining Mountain shelf campspot. The Spires lie ahead there across the valley.
Now, considering the fact that I was of the opinion that if God wanted to choose an earthly spot for heaven, He could hardly go better than the one in which we were then seated, this was joy to my ears. The view was fabulous; we were high in the sky with a sense of infinite space all around and mountainous views to die for. Yes, yes, please: I wanted to sleep just here, to linger in this place and soak it all in. THIS is why I bushwalk. This is the reason I come, and I did not want to go away. We stayed.


I chose a secluded spot beyond the other tents and enjoyed scenery that filled me with joy and peace. My spirit soared with pleasure. This is The Sublime, not just the beautiful. Spiritual pleasure in such a place is not confined to indigenous people. Wilderness is important to the soul of all of us: the chance to be in a place of the infinite and be still in a way that cities do not allow. My church is up here, not in a dark, musty building made by humans.


I wandered about, chatting, but mostly I sat and stared, just enjoying the existential pleasure of being. I no longer cared whether I made any more summits. I felt complete.



Day 4.

After a glorious start to the day, the climb down to Reverend Creek and then up to The Font was bothersome, done in temperatures that told you swimming would be a much more pleasant pastime than this. However, we were there to climb, not swim (that would come later for the Brave).


We dumped our packs at The Font, and began the serious business of our actual mission: to climb The Spires. But first, the vote was to climb Flame Peak on the way, to score two easy points in case we couldn’t get the Big One, which was much harder.


Unbelievably, my camera let me down at this part of the day, and refused to allow me to shoot. The others suggested that the heat was the problem, and they were right: it functioned again that night, but for these two peaks, the object of my quest, I was effectively cameraless.


But let me describe the route up The Spires. From the Flame-Spires saddle, we descended around the face of The Spires, curling right, until we found a ledge that led to an internal saddle within the Spires summit. The going in this part was easy, with plenty of bushes to grab. It was even shady. Hoorah. It was fabulous to be free of our packs at last. I felt so light and agile.


And now the photos move straight to sunset, due to the broken camera.
After the internal saddle, the fun of the final climb began.  We curled left, to be faced with a sloping rock that had no handholds for safety. We had been warned. Some crawled; some wormed. We all got there. It didn’t last long. First object overcome. Had anyone fallen, it would probably have been fatal, as the drop, although not of Feder proportions by any means, was probably enough to be one’s final acrobatic act.


After the slope, the rest was fun. Yes, the drop was now monstrous, but the handholds were secure, and I just didn’t look at the drop, so can’t tell you anything about it, although I could feel Great Space below. With security of holds, it didn’t matter. Eleven set out for the final climb. Eleven made the summit. Fantastic job, oh leader (who, having been there before, and now sporting some gastric bug, did not accompany us).


It was time for another vote. Should we go back the way we came and face the slopey bit again, or do a circuit continuing on towards False Dome, maybe climb it too, and come back that way? We voted for a circuit, so off we set. The saddle before the first internal mound offered no way down. Nor the second. After much climbing and humming, we voted to reclimb The Spires from this new direction, and retrace our steps. It was a fun adventure, and a good way to fill the afternoon. Soon enough, we were at the campsite above The Font, choosing our real estate for the next two nights and enjoying the views this place had to offer (tremendous).

Day 5.

This was to be a packless day, climbing Innes High Rocky, a mountain that pleased me greatly because of its stunningly remote position. Dale – one of our more adventurous members, and an amazing team member who averted many an attempt at team failure with his admirable ability (and astonishing willingness) to carry other people’s packs when they were struggling – went even more remote than that, and climbed Philps Lookout as well. The rest of us found Innes High Rocky to be exhausting enough on a day that felt well over thirty, and in terrain that offered very little water, but button grass higher than my waist to overcome for huge stretches.


One of my chief memories of this day is of us all crouching beside walls of rock, trying to shelter in tiny patches of shade. I even voluntarily sat on a scoparia bush, as that was the only way I could get some shade. This is not a hobby I will pursue. The day was ten hours long, even though the actual climb only took five and a half hours. The breaks were needed!! I enjoyed the chance to linger longer in a place that I will probably never go to again.


Innes High Rocky still a way off yet.

Day 6.

The Font
Now we entered the business end of the trip. Camped up high, we had access to BoM readings, and the weather for Tuesday was pretty bad; for Wednesday, absolutely deplorable. We had two days to get out to beat this change. If we could reach the Lake Gordon shore by late Monday afternoon, there was a chance Andrew could get us all out in his flimsy (sorry Andrew) dingy before the projected winds made the lake perilously rough. It was now Sunday morning.


Off we set, on a mission, and successfully walked two days at once, in what was a long day. This day was so windy, I had insurmountable trouble walking in anything resembling a straight line, being constantly thrown to the side by sudden gusts. I found it exhausting fighting the wind like that all day. We camped this night at the lake of our second night.

Day 7.
On we pushed in our race against the weather, but not so fast that we had to omit Pokana Peak, the final mountain, and Abel, of our quest. It was grand to be once more, albeit it only momentarily, free of our packs.


Pokana summit view
The day was long, the work was dehydrating, with the yabby holes from which we’d drunk on our way in now almost fully dried up by the way out. Valiantly the group pressed on, well aware of the penalty of easing off.

Andrew’s first trip across the Lake was dicey, and he feared it would be his last for the day, leaving a herculean task for the morrow, but he realised he could make another, and yet another, so did. My tent was already up when the boat returned, but I was neither worried nor disappointed – although I did brace myself during the night for a possible long haul at this spot. I knew that on the Wednesday, if still stranded, I would not be able to cook in the winds that had been forecasted, so prepared mentally for no warm meals as well. Meanwhile, the lakeside spot was rather fun, and I cooked a huge dinner in celebration that I didn’t need to eat abstemiously any longer (Laksa soup, “roast chicken” – so they say – plus apple pie for two for dessert). I had enough food still to last most emergencies, unless they endured for about a week. My rucksack still had over 2 kgs of extra food (I suffer from food angst, so had taken a little too much to cover for this), plus I had left a stash at the lakeshore in case.

Next morning, most unexpectedly, we heard a boat at 6 a.m., and saw Andrew, somewhat hassled by the emergency of the situation and the task of getting two more boatloads out before things became impossible. Under deep stress, knowing what he knows about boats and lakes and winds, he expertly handled this final exit. I have to confess to being terrified as we roared our way through closely placed dead trees in the lake at frightening speed (sorry for the lack of trust, Andrew, but I am not used to doing this). My only consolation was that I believed Andrew wanted to remain in life himself, so would not take unreasonable risks. He knew what he was doing. We were out. Twelve had set out, twelve arrived safely and successfully home. What a fabulous trip that will last in our memories for as long as we live. After everything was packed up, we drove eagerly to the Possum Shed to celebrate our expedition with Real Food.

Please note: this is in a category listed as “Distance Trail”. It is there because it covers 8-10 days’ worth of distance. Note, however, that there is NO TRAIL. This is pure wilderness, and needs expert map reading and much more to be undertaken.

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Cradle Mountain 2016 Dec

Cradle Mountain (yet again).
“Na. We’ve done Cradle Mountain,” said a relative visiting from the mainland when discussing options of where to go. I was speechless; utterly dumbfounded. They’ve been there once. I’m not convinced they’ve even walked the Dove Lake circuit, but they claim to have “DONE” Cradle Mountain. What is this “done”?

In the summer we moved here with a six and an eight year old, one of the first things we did was to climb Cradle Mountain (having climbed it as uni students shortly after our marriage). I feel guilty that I’ve only climbed this friendly giant eight times. Apart from anything else, each climb is different – different sky, different clouds, different shadows. New aspects of the overall scene strike you each time you summit. So much depends on the weather or the time of day you are there.

But “Cradle” is so much more than just that mountain. The name encompasses a variety of other wonders, such as the Plateau area, with its masses of tarns and fabulous winter skiing for children (we used to walk up carrying XC skis), the magic of the Ballroom Forest, the drama of the Hanson’s Peak approach, the plethora of hidden tarns in interesting crannies within a kilometre’s radius of the summit, and the lines of ridges emanating from the main massif, each with interesting views into gorges below. The forest at the back of Waldheim (or any other approaches to the high land) is “enchanted”; the forest officially called “enchanted” (the one behind the lodge) is not the only one to harbour a magic spell. Wombats forage here; fungi flourish. In autumn, tiny orange leaves make a wonderful tapestry across the pattern of tree roots that weave across the path.

Ancient trees over a thousand years old still stand as guardians of the wilderness they inhere. And what about the other mountains within cooee of the main attraction? Campbell, Kate, Emmett, Barn, Brewery Knob or Recondite Knob, to name “just” the Abels? In the photo two above, you can see Emmett peeping out behind the cradle part of the Big One, and Barn poking its distinctive head out of the yellow to the right. If Cradle is the only thing you have eyes for, then climb these to get a different view of the only thing your heart can hold.


To say you have “done” Cradle after a single visit is like saying you’ve “done” King Lear or Pride and Prejudice after a single reading. After one, you’ve barely scratched the surface. I’ve read Lear at least twenty times (never counted, possibly more … one just keeps reading, and gaining more each time), but I sure haven’t “done” Lear, and I will die before I have “done” Cradle, because she has so much more to offer than a single person can hope to reap, even in a lifetime.

No drama in this spot: just gently, subtle beauty that left us feeling so very calm and peaceful as we sat and stared at it.

Maybe you need high drama: huge pointed peaks and a giddy height if you read the numbers on an altimeter. Although height is, of course, absolute, it is also a relative thing, and a mountain rising hugely from sea level (e.g. Wellington), or from land that is still not very high, can make a far bigger impression than some peer with a greater absolute altitude. But if you do need your peaks to be over 4,000 ms, well, good luck to you. That keeps “my” Cradle from getting too crowded. I am reminded of the story told by our employer in England once, of when he took a man from a nation whose citizens are renowned for wanting everything to be big and bold to the Lake District, and proudly showed him a magnificent lake of subtle and delicate beauty. The man was totally dismissive: “Why Richard,” he bragged, “we have much bigger and better than that back home.” Richard, normally a man who could argue any point, had no answer to that mentality, preserving the story only to laugh at people who thought like that. Thomas Kuhn would say they had reached a paradigm chasm (or ‘revolutionary’ divide), across which there is only partial communication due to the different assumptions each side makes as a foundation to what they think, say or do.

Let us return to this notion of having “done” a mountain, or Tasmania or whatever. As the girl serving us on our way home said, it denotes not a desire to see anything, or to experience anything properly, but rather, to tick a box: “Done Cradle Mountain”; “Done Tasmania” (I’ve heard that one too, from someone who spent a week here). Such ticking apparently earns you bragging rights amongst certain groups of people. Terry Eagleton, literary critic and social commentator of excellence, talked of (in disparaging tones) “the commodification of experience”, whereby marketers had taken up the idea of parcelling and selling experience so people could purchase / consume it. (Commodification is the turning of something that does not normally have a market value into something which is a commodity and can be sold). All of a sudden, your holiday to see Lake St Clair became the “Lake St Clair experience”. Tick. Hapless shopper-zombies were to tour the world, purchasing these “never to be forgotten experiences”, outdoing each other in the outré and adventurous nature of each one. Their lives could not possibly be complete without the X experience, now purchasable for the price of Y (a very big number). Poor shallow, frenetically-gathering experience hunters. Always worrying that the experience they just purchased would not cut it amongst the audience they were trying to impress. Perhaps they accidentally purchased last year’s must-do experience. I’m afraid this blog is failing you, as I have lost track of what is the latest experience you are supposed to have had, and so cannot help you.

But as for me, I will go to places that please me because they are beautiful and have subtleties and complexities that keep me entertained. I will keep visiting favourite haunts because to do so is to renew my acquaintance with places where familiarity means I already know a great deal and am on the watch to renew and strengthen a deep acquaintance. I will mix this up by exploring new places that tempt me by images I have seen or things I have heard of their beauty, but I will not always be chasing new friends, as old ones, ultimately, are more special, just like people.
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Eastern Arthurs 2016 ii Federation Peak attempt and East Portal

Eastern Arthurs II. Federation Peak attempt and East Portal.     A personal perspective.

The big one of the Eastern Arthurs, yea, of Tasmania: Federation Peak. Gulp. It’s not the highest, but it is the biggest in stature and in everyone’s minds. Summit day dawned: a white-out. Start time was put back for at least an hour … or more. Whatever it took to give visibility. The air was cold and damp and we appreciated the extra time in our cozy, warm sleeping bags, chatting across the tent space. We’d all eaten and were ready to pull down the tents in minimum time when it became appropriate. I wasn’t impatient. It was not suitable to climb in this.

Federation Peak, all close and personal.

The call to move came to me like a call for battle. So. This was it. Here was our destiny, which, in a worst case scenario, could be our death. You fall on a certain section of this rock face, and you die. Damit basta. This was, contrary to my original understanding, to be a ropeless climb. No one told me that the rope we were bringing was not for humans, and I had made assumptions. However, had I known, I would still be here, exactly where I was, waiting to see what could be seen; waiting to experience whatever it was that lay directly ahead.

Cautious movement along the Southern Traverse.

There is no intended blame here. If you don’t know how to tie the right knots, attach a rope properly to a fixture and belay with correct technique, then it is utterly inappropriate to have the responsibility of doing it in a situation such as this thrust upon you. I am merely saying that the absence of this safety net altered my attitude to the climb that lay ahead.

Cute, isn’t she.
On we pressed, negotiating our way along the famous (or, infamous, considering the recent death on it) Southern Traverse. In this section, I was actually enjoying the dramatic drops down to the lake several hundred metres below, as there was at least 30 cms of ledge, and that’s plenty for me to be comfy. I was wondering which was the section where the girl fell to her death, but didn’t like to ask.

Eventually, however, we reached a sloped section where a fall would break some minor bone (leg, arm, hip) if you landed badly. You’d be terribly unlucky for anything worse than that, so it was not shatteringly scary, but neither was it a breeze if you enjoy your bones being in one piece, as I do. I realised that for me, any mountain is a prelude to all the ones that will follow, and no one mountain is worth the sacrifice of even a season’s bushwalking, let alone anything worse. The others were being very tentative as they edged themselves down with nothing much to hold on to.

A beautiful sunset the night of our attempt. This trip only offered rare moments of joy, but this sunset was sure one of them!

My foot slipped on the wet rock here. I sized up the slope. I could get down without falling, I figured, but to get back up later, I could possibly need some help in the form of a hand from above or a shove from below. I didn’t like the idea of attempting it solo. I also knew in that single moment of slippage that there was no way I was going to trust the rock on the dangerous section that day. This bit was only an appetiser for the main meal. I considered my options. If I backed out now, I could easily return to other, interesting zones and have some fun while I waited for the others, but if I proceeded beyond this point, I’d be a prisoner, possibly bored and cold, playing what could be a very long waiting game. Snap decision. I announced my withdrawal. The leader nodded and on went the group. I perched there, watching for a short while, not particularly sad as I felt I had made the right decision on this day. I will try some other time, when the rock is dry, and when I am in the company of someone who knows how to use rope.

Dawn. Perfect.

I turned, and climbed the first high thing I came to. I had a fantastic view straight across to the face of Feder (where I searched in vain for my friends). My mountain even had a big summit cairn. Is this mountain ‘Consolation Feder’, I wondered. I tried to phone my family to tell them any danger was behind me. My youngest darling was the only one to answer. She whooped with delight when I told her I was safe and would remain so. Her joy made me happy.

How can you order a morning like this? Feder towering above her neighbours and a pink sky to grace her beauty.
I filled the remaining time climbing an assortment of lumps and bumps in the area, building tiny cairns for each. (Sorry, but not really, purists who don’t like unnatural things like cairns. I’m no engineer and the wind will probably destroy them over time. They’re quite cute, only three tiny stones high apiece).

The others didn’t get to the summit either. The water was flowing down the chute of the direct ascent and the rock was slippery and dangerous. The following day, the group going in as we came out, carrying ropes and harnesses, did get up, but the leader slipped and fell, landing – miraculously – on a ledge (not the normal scenario) and breaking his leg. The group was helicoptered off the mountain, lucky to all be alive

A storm is brewing. I thought of Catherine and her friends due to climb that day.

Back we went to Goon Moor, to a camping area I didn’t particularly like but which serves a purpose. Sunrise and sunset from this spot (well, nearby) were stunning. My camera had stopped working that afternoon, but gave one last fling that enabled the photos below before calling it quits. It has a fairly temperamental opening mechanism. I was more grateful than you can imagine to be given this little reprieve. Louise without her camera is in a far worse condition than a smoker without her fags. I relate to the beauty of the wilderness creatively through a lens, even when, as in an expedition such as this, it has to be a compact one. Anything longer than six days, I need to switch to this smaller, lighter camera. At least it shoots in RAW.

On the final climbing day before the walkout along the plains, we summitted East Portal. Only Angela had done any research on this climb, and she had Chapman’s “wise” words on her phone, viz, that we should follow the rocky ridge around to the summit. This advice is hilarious if you are on the mountain. Short of growing wings, it is useless. We tried left, then right, then left again, further left this second time, down into a chasm and then up, nearer to the ridgeline, but not on it (still to its left). Only at the second last summit of the many points did we get onto what would be the central line of the ridge.

Now. Ahem. How much do you pay to get THIS?? 

The final climb had a narrow-ledged section of hold-your-breath-and-hope (i.e., some exposure), fierce winds at times, and a very narrow summit area, from which being accidentally bumped off was a distinct possibility. We could see nasty weather coming in from the north. We were very businesslike on top: no groupie photos, no visible joy. It was touch the cairn, take a few shots and let’s get out of there before that rain makes the ledge worse. I thought of Catherine on Federation and wondered how the group was going. I thought the fact that I hadn’t seen or heard a helicopter was a good sign. I guess I was concentrating too hard on our own task, or buried deep in shrubbery at the relevant moment when the rescue was being carried out. Maybe the wind drowned out the noise.

Climbing East Portal
Soon after this ascent, we began the long trip down onto the plains, which marked the commencement of the less-than-thrilling, one-and-a-half days’ walk along the flatness to exit the area. My feet had been wet for a week, and had gone soft and tender and mushy. Big blisters were starting to form underneath. It was SO good to finish and take those wretched boots off.

I ate like Miss Piggy at the Possum Shed, delighting in food that had a recognisable taste, and revelling in cappuccino and home-made cake.

Over the next couple of days, I enjoyed our garden and the small things of life with greater intensity, as if I’d been given life anew. I hadn’t had a brush with death, but even its vague possibility makes you appreciative of all the countless fabulous things that make up life when all is going well. Federation will wait for me if and when I get back with some good weather and a rope.