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Eastern Arthurs 2016 i Needles and Geeves Bluff

Eastern Arthurs part 1: The Needles and Geeves Bluff.

The Eastern Arthurs connote wild, remote beauty; beyond that, I wasn’t quite sure what to expect, but I was looking forward to seeing and experiencing whatever it was that lay ahead. I hoped to climb Federation Peak, although didn’t have my heart set on it, and unequivocally wanted to climb The Needles, (an Abel as yet unclimbed). That, I thought, should be a pretty definite possibility. Apart from that, great views and that special feeling fostered by deep wilderness lay on the agenda.

On the first day, we began after lunch and no one seemed in a hurry, so we didn’t make violent distance before calling it a day, and pitching our tents on a broad spur just past Two Mile Creek. We were rewarded next morning by scenes as in the two photos above. One of the features of bushwalking in the wilderness that I love best is precisely that ability to say, “Let’s camp here”, and just drop your bundle and pitch your little tent with views to die for.
On this occasion, however, doing that delightful thing had the downside that it meant a bigger-than-expected second day across the hot plains that left some of our members rather exhausted. We developed the cute habit of leaving two members behind at every campsite for a while after this. Eleven became nine by the time we arrived at Goon Moor for the third night. But I have jumped ahead. First we need to leave the plains, pretty as they are in the pictures of our first night in the above two photos, and climb up onto the range.

The above two photos are of some of the creek crossings before we began climbing. As you can see, water levels were high but not at all dangerous – and there was plenty of deep mud in case you’re wondering. Legs, clothes, gaiters and boots were all sodden and filthy by the first night, and remained so for the eight days we were there. Most of us stoically donned wet socks again each morning. Some optimists changed to dry ones, to have them generously receive the gift of water from the wet boots not long after. It felt good while it lasted.

After Pass Creek (our second campsite), we climbed up onto the range via Luckmans Lead, on a route that takes you past a rock formation called the Boiler Plates. Above, you can see the group about to pass through what I call Boiler Plates saddle. As you climb, the Plates are up and to your left. At the mini saddle, you swing left to skirt along their backside.

On the far right of this photo, you can see the backside of the Boiler Plates. Below left is Lake Leo, and behind, the famous East Portal, object of our quest on the return journey. For now, however, we are intent on reaching the campsite from which we will make our attempt on Federation Peak, viz, Hanging lake, so will not spend time or energy on longer, distracting climbs, although we did do a few smaller ones en route.

Kathy and Tony climbing as we make our way to the Stuart Saddle. Those are The Needles above, which several of us will climb after lunch.Angela, climbing towards the saddle at which we will dump our packs before climbing The Needles.

Dale and Wayne coming along the route that we later abandoned due to its dramatic plunge between two Needles. I’m glad we climbed these lesser Needles as well, as the views were fabulous.

The Louise that took the picture above was a very happy one. We had dropped our packs in the saddle suggested by the Abels book, and now were on our way to the summit of The Needles. However, this route involved a descent between some of the Needles that several members of the group were not comfortable with, so we actually ended up returning to the saddle and going back down the track until we were just short of being underneath the Needle that constitutes the summit. Even from here, the climb was not without its challenges.

The Needles, summit view. We are looking at Lake Leo and East Portal below.

Wayne, Angela and Dale went right of a rocky spur that gave them a route that was very steep and felt a bit loose in places. I went left of this spur, followed by courageous Kathy. Our route was great except for the final lunge for the summit, where we were clinging to minuscule pieces of rock with a very daring and not exactly pleasant drop straight into the  lake below. I concentrated on clinging to rock and tried not to see what was in my peripheral vision. Kathy says she is scared of heights, so I was very proud of her when she emerged onto the summit space having dared that route too. I was NOT looking forward to climbing back down that way, so was greatly relieved to discover that the route the others had taken didn’t involve exposure of that nature. We all went down their route.

Having a breather climbing the Four Peaks. Rain does not seem to be dampening our spirits.

On day four, we climbed around the Four Peaks, trying to get past the many and varied obstacles before reaching Hanging Lake. We have now left two more members behind to climb other things, so are reduced to being a team of seven. We had to pack haul on three occasions on this route, more because we could not squeeze ‘human plus big pack’ in the space provided than because we needed to get clear of the weight. There just wasn’t enough space to fit us.

Geeves Bluff, view

After we arrived at Hanging Lake, several of us climbed Geeves Bluff. Here is one of the many views on offer from the summit. Wayne and Dale were busy making telephone calls on top. I tried to join in the fun, only to discover that my phone had accidentally been bumped on, and was now nearly out of battery. I never found a spot from which I could send a message to say I was still alive, so gave up. Such a message, if I could send it at all, would have to wait for tomorrow, the day on which we hoped to climb Feder. The forecast seemed good – early mist but then clearing. Hopefully conditions wouldn’t be too wet. Time would tell. This story will be continued next blog. What a tease.

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Mersey Crag 2016 Oct

Mersey Crag via the Back Door. October 2016

When planning this trip, I castigated myself: Why hadn’t I climbed Mersey Crag when the road to it was somewhat open, and when I was so very near the summit? On two occasions I had been within cooee of the top, yet had not gone there because I thought access to it would always be easy, so why rush things? Why not savour the moment and do it all by itself sometime? Why not? Because floods would come, ruining approach roads and denying us all any kind of access to the area, possibly for years.

Mersey Crag summit, looking down the Little Fisher Valley

So, now I thought I was doing it the hard way, because it was a very long way in, and I thought I was not doing it the beautiful way, because I do so love the Rinadena Falls. Little did I know. Alright, it was a long way in, but we summitted on the first afternoon, so not too long, and what surprised me most of all was the extreme beauty from the moment we rose above the bushfire marks on the Blue Peaks track.

Mersey Crag summit looking across to Turrana Bluff

We reached the base of Blue Peaks in an hour and a half, but were focussed on our far-flung goal, so resisted the temptation to lose time by going up. We would stay focussed on our ultimate goal for now, and not climbing this first peak would justify another visit to this area that we were already falling in love with from the moment we entered the zone of lush cushion grasses with narrow, pure streams running through. On we continued, not even stopping for a break.

Summit area looking to the Walls. You can see Mt Jerusalem, The Temple, Solomons Throne, King Davids Peak and then, further back, mountains like the Acropolis and Geryon.

The official pad finishes here, but a rough hint of a route around the first two lakes – one followed, we suspected, by many fishermen – continued until we needed to cross the outlet stream separating Little Throne Lake from Grassy Lake. All this time we had no idea of how soggy things were going to be up here, or how many detours we were going to have to make around tarns, or, for that matter, how deep the many, many creek crossings marked on the map were going to be. Here was our first real creek. Hm. Up and down we go, looking for a place to cross. It is mostly wide and deep and flowing quite swiftly. We find a possibility, but it is risky. Will I fall in and get everything wet?

The frozen tarns of our tent site

Being a shocking pessimist in such matters, I opt for a double crossing, first with my pack, and then with my precious camera. Believe it or not, I even took off my jacket and jumper in case I fell in and wet them. Unscathed, we sat on the other side of the river and had lunch. Little Throne was just behind us now. From here on would be genuinely trackless wilderness, pure freedom to choose our direction and path.

Morning glory
We set bearings from our paper maps, but also plotted our course on our gps systems to check our progress, and off we set, around Little Throne, past nameless bumps of great beauty, offering excellent views, and past thousands of tiny tarns, all sparkling in the afternoon light. We just adored it. All further creek crossings and tarn skirtings were problem free, and we were happy with our progress.

On Turrana Heights, we reassessed. I had originally suggested that we go for four hours with the full packs and then summit from there, but I was so happy with my pack on my back I kept pushing for further. Having the packs with us reduced all stress about whether or not we would make it back to where we had dumped them. We have both been quite sick in this last week. Angela was off work with a virus, and I had been to the doctor’s the day before with a combination of bronchitis and asthma. I found it hard to read my body under those conditions, and my pack meant security. If I hit a wall without notice, then everything I needed was right there with me. Angela was fine with this. On we continued until nearly four and a half hours, when we saw an irresistible spot just before the Turrana-Mersey saddle. It was now less than two kilometres to the summit, and only 3.15 in the afternoon. We could set up our tents here, saunter to the top and still be back in the light with no problems. Angela ate lunch part two.

Cresting the summit was very sweet. There are summits and summits, and this was a good one, as we had both held doubts about whether or not we could make it given the amount of water there might be to negotiate, given the distance, and the uncertainty of our health. When you doubt, the victory is felt more keenly. We had time in abundance now we were there and had our tents so close, so enjoyed the top, savouring the extensive view and delighting in all we could see. At a very leisurely pace, we ambled, almost reluctantly, back to our little tents.

We had both been snug and warm overnight, having both elected to use our extra bivvybags. I had actually been a little hot and had stripped down during the night. It is testimony to these bags that we discovered in the morning that our tents were rigid with ice and the world outside our aegises was a sparkling, glittering white one. Enthusiastically I snapped the frozen tarns and sword-like pineapple grass. I had lugged my tripod all this way, but, sadly, was too cold to use it. I told myself sick girls have an excuse.

Back home we go
We swept the ice off our tents with brooms made from the scrub and slowly packed up. The only pressure for the day was our appointment with the Raspberry Farm for celebration cake, and there was no risk of missing that. We deliberately left unfinished business in the area, planning instead the next trip as we bypassed peaks that could wait for next time. What a glorious weekend.
Route data: Day 1, 20.35 kms +702 ms climbed yields 27.3 kilometre equivalents. Total of 7 hours’ walking.
Day 2, 14.55 kms + 410 ms climb gives 18.7 km equivalents. 5 hours’ walking.

Total for two days, 46 km equivalents and 12 hours’ walking (this does not include breaks like lunch or morning tea). OK. We’re allowed to be tired. Here are the maps – rather a lot of them, as we covered rather a lot of territory and it is pretty complex (4 interconnecting screen shots).

From end of track to south of Little Throne (1:100,000)


Continuing SSW over the side hump of Turrana Heights

From the unnamed lump SW of Turrana heights heading towards the Turrana-Mersey saddle. The waypoint marks our tent spot.

Tent to Mersey Crag summit return.

Note, these are “only” 1: 100,000 scale, chosen to give the broad shape of the land without too much detail to confuse.
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Agamemnon 2016 Sept

Agamemnon 2016 Sept.

Angela nears the summit of Agamemnon

Agamemnon had been calling me for a long time. At last there seemed to be a break in the weather that would allow us an attempt. Off Angela and I set, although neither of us was entirely on top of things, health wise. I had had a low-grade virus all week, but thought I’d be fine … until I shouldered my pack, which felt absurdly heavy. The hills felt shockingly steep.  That’s OK. Despite a general “go slow”, we had reached the point in the track where a button grass clearing leads up towards Agamemnon in a bit under four hours’ walking.

Frenchman Cap from near the summit of Agamemnon

Pessimistically, I looked up at a set of cliffs above and pronounced that it could take us an hour to get there. (I always like to overestimate so as not to be disappointed later.) Unfortunately, nearly an hour was exactly what it took. No one had mentioned that the button-grass lead cedes to thick, nasty steep scrub that two off-colour girls would find hard work.

From below, I’d seen a fissure in the rocks with green in its crack, and suggested that we head for it, hoping it would provide a lead to the top. It did. We sat on top of the rocky outcrop (above) at the end of ‘climbing stage one’, enjoying a snack and taking in the dramatic view. We’d gained a lot of height in that hour, although I had been drastically slow.

The ‘Four Ugly Sisters’ (so named by us). A rocky outcrop on the ridge just below were on our bearing. Ultimately, we topped out next to the sisters (to their left).
The next point we wanted to visit was a saddle not in sight. We set our compasses on 154 degrees and headed across and up. There were some rocks on a big ridge below the Four Ugly Sisters that were on our bearing, so it was easy to keep direction whilst weaving. The going was tougher than expected, however: the scrub had not yet finished, and there were many rocky bulges that posed a “left, right or over” decision. Sometimes Angela went over, I went right and we met at the far side, smiling.

Angela examining her photos on  “sunset rock”.
After about forty minutes, we came to a point where it looked quite OK up on the left on a little ridgelet. We were about to reach a mini-saddle (very mini) within the wider structure of the bigger ridge. Ahead, the bush looked very thick. Our destination looked to be dauntingly steep and far away. I pointed out that sunset views would be great from here. We agreed to call it a day. Higher would have been nicer, with better views, but we had had enough. The laden winter packs had been on our backs for five and a half hours. Time to enjoy what remained of the light.

Frenchmans Cap in the clouds

Given that the next day was supposed to be clear, sunset was a bit disappointing, but I am still pleased with what I captured. It was worth lugging my tripod and GND filters up there after all.

My trusty room with a view, frosted up a bit.
Angela did not want one of my super-early starts, so I suggested 7.30, hoping that was a good compromise. She agreed to it. I’m glad it wasn’t any earlier, as the tent was sopping in the morning, even though much of the condensation had frozen. I had time to enjoy early light without being hurried. There was no sunrise, as such. Hm. This was not the weather we’d been promised.

Fenchmans looking cute below us, and the Fourth Ugly Sister looming large.
Again my pessimistic and conservative estimation came: “It could take us one and a half hours to reach the top from here.” Unfortunately, the one and a half hours it took was walking time only, and if you throw in time taken for photographs at those vantage points where not to stop would have been plain criminal (like when we reached those rocks on the ridge, or when when we topped out near the Four Ugly Sisters (the far left one of which is pictured above), then it was two hours. 9.30 a.m. I sat on the summit staring at my watch and looking out at Philps Peak, our next goal. My calculations of the feasibility of this programme had not involved summitting this late – not on a short, winter’s day with glowering clouds rolling in. I had had a snoop around while we were photographing and snacking, and was not entirely confident that we could even get off this cliffy mound on which we were perched without needing to take a big detour backwards.

The somewhat contorted landscape that a map has trouble adequately representing.
No detour was necessary, which was great. Meanwhile, Angela, undaunted by my pessimistic assessment of our chances, was keen to give Philps a go, so off we set, with me warning that we really couldn’t afford a single hiccup en route. We had one in less than thirty minutes, when we lost time skirting around Agamemnon South. The mess of thick bushes and snow that gave way, the general uncertainty of the best route ahead all took their toll and seemed to conspire against us.

Summit view from Agamemnon
Meanwhile, clouds now completely obscured Philps Peak. This is not an area to be in with poor visibility: in fact, that’s downright dangerous. So many of our decisions were based on sight, as compass only gave a general direction, and map contours simplified the scenery to too great an extent. Eyes were needed to have guidance through this maze. Moreover, it was also raining over there. Angela reluctantly agreed to give up, jokingly commenting: “Who would believe that you’re the sensible one of the two of us?”

Lake Whitham far below

Still on the correct route, but about to give up. We will be back next time.
We played on Agamemnon South for a bit and headed back, finding good routes harder to pick on the rebound. At 11.45 we reached the Four Ugly Sisters again. The view was anything but ugly. Columns of rain were advancing rapidly. I suggested we enjoy the possible remains of what had been forecasted as a nice day and eat an early lunch right there, enjoying what our hard work had won for us. This was the only really relaxing moment in a very long, very hard day … just sitting up there, chewing, staring. Wonderful.

Once back at the tents, I raced to get mine down before the rain hit. Our packs had been on our backs for about thirty seconds when the first droplets let loose. Our chute down was hard to find in the thick mist. We very nearly missed it, and only just ascertained that we had found a way down when the blanket of grey completely closed in, and visibility was reduced to ten metres.

Views from on Agamemnon South.
At 2.30 we hit the track far below. Quandary: Left to Lake Vera Hut, or right, out?? We both voted right. Realistically, we would finish after dark presuming we would need breaks and be slower than the time in. It had already been a seven-hour day. Undeterred, we marched on. By the Loddon River, I was exhausted and sore, but we were both keen to continue. As we donned our packs yet again, I muttered supposedly encouraging words: “Max two hours to go; even in the dark.” I then laughed, as I thought about the fact that a marathon takes not too much longer than two hours (depending on who you are), yet most people speak of this with trepidation, and here we were consoling ourselves that we only had a marathon left to go. Ha ha. The relativity of it all.

The whole day ended up being ten minutes short of twelve hours, but we made it – AND we made it to the Derwent Bridge Hotel before they closed the kitchen, and were thus able to enjoy a delicious dinner near a great big open fire before setting out for the big drive home. I was still in my cow pants, gaiters and boots. Poor Angela. You will be pleased to learn that the cow pants got a tiny tear in them this trip. Their days may well be numbered.


Agamemnon, from our tent (waypoint) to the summit.


Route from the Frenchmans Track to our tent
Track data: (I was feeling a wuss before I noted these figures).
Day 1. 16 kms + 825 ms climb = 24.25 km equivalents.
Day 2. 22 kms + 800 ms climb = 30 km equivalents.
Total for two days: 54.25 km equivalents.
OK. I was allowed to be tired, especially considering the winter-weight pack and the 3kgs camera equipment on top of that. Even so, I do need to toughen up for long summer expeditions. Sigh.

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Cradle Mountain 2016 Aug Snow camping

Cradle Mountain, camping in the snow.

If you have been following this blog, you will know that I have been trying to get out snow camping almost every weekend since I returned from Europe, but that something has always come up to prevent it. At last this weekend I got my wish. Angela had time free and wanted an adventure; snow was predicted: we were off. Initially we were (we thought) going to climb Blue Peaks and be on the Western Tiers, but road access problems meant that we had to choose the Cradle area in order to get both an open road and snow. I wasn’t sad. I love this place, and don’t always need to be somewhere new.

We were both feeling a bit out of practice at Tassie-style snow work, so I also enjoyed being in an area that offered us plenty of dramatic snow and yet was only a couple of hours from the lodge, so somehow that felt less remote if anything went wrong. It was good to have a chance to refine our methodology and test some of our new gear here before committing ourselves to the really deep wild wilderness. Mind you, during the night, with the wind howling and the tent making explosive whiplash noises, I didn’t feel so terribly secure, and kept wondering if I’d survive if the tent broke in one of these furious gusts. Plenty of people have died within five kilometres of Cradle, so it didn’t feel particularly wussy during the night.

I am “naturelover”, so it goes without saying that I love nature: this does not mean some National Parks attenuated idea of nature, some metre-wide levelled out highway through what is dubbed wilderness for the sake of city tourists, but which is tamed with infrastructure to defang it for timid  human toleration. I am not against the existence of such tracks – everyone begins somewhere, and my love of extended bushwalking began with the Overland Track, and it serves a need either as a beginning point, or even an ultimate achievement for many people. However, I think if we really want to meet nature in its supreme form, we need to expose ourselves to some of its less “pretty” and comfortable aspects. A snow storm in winter is one such.

Robert Macfarlane in The Wild Places, a book searching for wild locations in Britain, spends a night in midwinter on a Lake District mountain exposing himself to the fury of a storm in order to experience and appreciate nature’s unleashed force. When I read his book (which I loved) I felt so sorry for the people of the British Isles, that there were so few places where they could experience the might of undiminished nature. We are somewhat spoiled in Tasmania to have reasonably easy access to abundant places that satisfy this longing – but we need to be wary. People who only see nature as the means for making money and who wish to thus subject nature to their concept of what tourists want and who are willing to sacrifice what they neither know nor understand to the great god of dollar are encroaching on the wildness and wilderness we have left and are chomping bits out of it at an alarming rate.

Many, many Tasmanians mourn the loss of the access to wilderness that we used to enjoy in our own national parks as our old freedoms are removed with each new development, for the most part brought in to allow better management of visiting tourists rather than any motive of caring for the land. Our love of this land is being ignored. Our attachment to the land, our sense of spirituality that comes from being in infinite space and beauty, and our culture of camping and walking in it are treated as nugatory. Of course the tourist industry has myriad excellent features, but that does not mean we allow it to run out of control so that the only wild thing left in our state is that government department. Like alcohol, tourism should be used in moderation. I would love to live in a land where values other than money ruled our ethos and regulations. I fear this worship of money above all other values will ultimately bring about the collapse of western civilisation as we know it, for it is fast running out of control in a destructive solipsistic spiral. The object so valued because it can bring so much can also be the object of demise when not controlled.

I thought of Robert Macfarlane during the night of not-all-that-much sleep, and pondered such issues. We cannot respect nature if we don’t know what it is, and if we fail to respect it, we will harm this beautiful earth beyond repair.

For those who have not tried snow camping, but who are already thinking they want to take this step, I will tell you what we wore to bed. One size does not fit all. We are both small, lean females who feel the cold. Our needs will probably not be felt by those with more padding, and will not suffice those with less. This is what I had on to survive the night, and Angela’s story is similar. On my head I had a silk balaclava, an icebreaker buff and the hood of my Arcteryx jacket (as well as the hood of my bag). On my upper body, I had an icebreaker singlet, a long-sleeved thermal top, an icebreaker T-shirt and a cosy Arcteryx jacket, as well as the warmth from my sea-to-summit SpIII goosedown bag (850 loft, 400g fill). My hands were warmed by possum gloves. On my legs, I had thermal longs (over woollen knickers), orienteering pants, another pair of icebreaker wooden long tights and the bag. On my feet I had woolly socks (two pairs would have been nice). Over all of that, I had an SOL bivvy bag (which adds five degrees to what you can tolerate), and over that, my trusty tent. The temperature difference between the other side of that flimsy wall and the protected inside was easy to note. I also had my Goretex jacket spread over my feet area. In my pillow bag, I had another jacket should I need it, and another thermal, but I felt fine. We both used four-season mats. I also had a carpet underlay.
My knees were sometimes a little cold during the night, but as long as the temperature didn’t drop any further, I was fine as I was, and didn’t pull out my reserve gear. I was absolutely definite that I was NOT getting out of that bag to go to the toilet, which I unfortunately needed to do from about 9 p.m. until 7 a.m., but there are some bodily needs that just have to be taught their place. Angela likewise refused her body this request.
Dismantling the tents was probably the least enjoyable part of our excursion, but once we were underway walking again, the pain in our hands soon eased, and I was left wondering exactly how slippery the steep part of the Face Track descent would be. We chose that route as it is the least exposed in our opinion, but still could be challenging in icy conditions where the steel chain is frozen over and the land drops dramatically away over rock that has few vertical holds. We were both carrying minispikes just in case, but, on this occasion, the powdery snow had not melted to make slippery ice, so all was well. And meanwhile, the sight of gums drooping with icy mantels, of filigree branchlets capped in a delicate white covering, of wombats caught unawares whilst burrowing in snow all thrilled me as I scanned the landscape for signs of where a track might be when not masquerading incognito as bland white wilderness. The powdery snow made a delicate sort of squeaking sound as our feet compressed its mass. I wish I could have taken more photos, but I was far too cold, and was having trouble with my camera lens clouding over in these conditions.
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Legges Tor 2016 Aug

Legges Tor in the snow (mach 2)
On Tuesday, Angela had the day off work, so the two of us headed up to Ben Lomond to catch some snow and do a white ascent of Legges Tor from Carr Villa. On this trip, I decided to get all my possible snow errors over and done with in one day so I can have the rest of the season clear. It seems there were many to dispense with.

Firstly, there were problems doing up my spiders, which were needed twenty minutes into the climb once the track became a smooth frozen river of very shiny, very slippery ice. I couldn’t remember how to do them up, so improvised a method. Really, I knew it was insecure and had to fail. I just couldn’t devise a better one just then. Five minutes later, predictably, they came off. I tried again and off we set. Five minutes later they fell off again. Now I tried a new method, it felt better. Five minutes later they fell off again. At last I worked out how to attach them at the back too. They were on the wrong feet, but I didn’t feel like delaying Angela any more, so hoped that wouldn’t matter. It did. Seven minutes later they fell off again. Ok. I sat down and changed the feet around. Hoorah. No more delays from the spiders for the rest of the day. Angela had just slid her rubber topped, chain-crampon booties on in .05 seconds flat.

Now trying to fit these wretched spiders had involved quite a bit of pulling and tugging. At one moment, I was pulling very hard indeed and my hand slipped so that my fist bounced speedily upwards biffing me on the nose. Blood poured out immediately and copiously. I didn’t do much about this as I was too busy roaring with laughter. I had never known anyone to bop themselves on the nose so hard that they bled like that. I guess I was lucky I didn’t knock myself unconscious. The extreme cold soon put a stop to the bleeding. Luckily I had toilet paper to hand.

On we marched. I heard a snap. The buckle on the waist band of my pack bounced undone. I fixed it up. Angela said: “Aren’t you going to collect your lens cap?” I hadn’t even noticed it had snapped off too. Five minutes later I wanted to photograph something beautiful. Oh no. No lens cap. I just had to go back and search for it. It had obviously come off a second time. Luckily, I did find it lying in the snow, a bit away from where we’d been. It must have rolled.

Despite all these delays, we eventually neared the summit. The wind was furious and freezing, but I just had to photograph this beauty. I took one glove off, tucking it under my arm, and snapped away at ice rime on beautiful dolerite, while Angela, too cold to stop, continued towards the summit, hoping I’d hurry up no doubt. I photographed her in the act of summiting and then dashed off to the side for some more shots. By this time, my ungloved hand was ready to drop off. That was the only reason I stopped my mad clicking. I went to put the tucked in glove back on. You guessed. It was gone. I retraced my steps. Poor Angela was now totally frozen with all my fooling around. However, these were very special windproof gloves (they weren’t even an ugly black like every single pair of gloves on sale in 2015-6, as they’d come from Switzerland). I needed to give this glove one more chance of being found. Angela pointed out that in this wind, it would have blown away and could be anywhere. I promised her minimal time spent on this and raced back to where I’d been. Halleluja, over to the inside, blown away but still visible, lay my precious glove. Off we set, quickly, before Angela turned into an ice pillar.

As I had run out of smart ideas for further errors, the trip back was uneventful. It felt good to drop out of the gelid wind, and the temperature increased as we lost height as well. We even shed some layers. It was a beautiful day, which we both enjoyed.