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Cheyne Range 2016 Mar

Cheyne Range High Point Mar 2016

Sunsets here were beautiful

The group looks down from the Hugel ridge to our eventual destination
As I described my trip to the Cheyne Range to a friend at Pilates, I saw in her eyes that she was transported away from our concrete room to a beautiful world described by my tale of a wilderness unseen. I saw her longing to be camped by a wild lake with reflections of sunsets and morning mists, and detected joy at the notion of seeing a remote waterfall, high near the source of the famous Franklin River, set deep in a rainforested gorge: I saw my trip with different eyes. My friend’s rapture helped me not to take the joy of my journeys to the wilderness for granted. I already knew it had been a fabulous expedition before I spoke to her, but her delight in my tale of things she cannot see gave it a new dimension. This friend has a handicap that prevents her from going to places like this, although she is only in her twenties. I feel very privileged to see what I see. How lucky we are in Tasmania to still have wilderness worth describing.

Summit view

Orites Falls
This was an expedition filled with water but, unlike last week, this was not in the form of rain. We had lunch by Shadow Lake, walked past Forgotten Lake, drank from a nameless tarn on the Hugel ridge, and camped by Lake Hermione. Hermione was the daughter of the much feted Helen of Troy. This lake is not an insult to the name. That evening, after most had swum, we dined in the warmth of the last remnants of sun, sitting on a little knoll-cum-isthmus jutting into the lake.

Angela, happy at Orites Falls

The second day had more lakes and tarns than I could name – which is especially so as few of them actually had been given the courtesy of a moniker. We photographed the first, walked happily past the second to fifth, had morning tea at the sixth and waved at a few more on our way to the summit with its grand views to so many of my mountain friends. I said “hello” to them in my mind and remembered happy times on their slopes and summits. However, I was rather solemn on top, as I had just lost my phone which, as an object, is easily replaced, but it has a wealth of map data in it that is of great sentimental value, so I was morose. An emu parade and Chris Rathbone’s sharp eyes returned it to me and I was glum no more.

Sunset, second night

After lunch at “Refreshment Tarn”, we discussed dividing into two. Some chose to return straight to camp, while five of us opted to see Orites Falls, which meant parting ways at the next (nameless) tarn. For us waterfall hunters, the next hour was spent fighting scoparia, and I began to regret my decision to come. However, all scratchy things come to an end, and at last we entered a cool and beautiful rainforest and bid Richea Scratch-ouch-aria farewell.

Mist, morning number three

Now came the glorious descent of over a hundred metres straight down a slope so steep the contour lines just ran into each other. The pitch was so extreme that sliding down was the only sensible option. My chosen method was to select a tree three to five metres away as my stopping wall, slide on my bum to it, land against it feet first, recollect myself, choose the next tree and repeat. This spree was not without a dose of adrenalin, which meant I was quite exhilarated by the time my feet actually landed by the river below.


This was not any old river. It was the Franklin whose very name connotes wilderness and beauty. We had seen its source from our summit, and here we were, not much lower than that. The water was clear and beautiful; the forest lush and green. We drank from the magic waters in refreshing gulps and chatted, ate and laughed, thrilled to be there. The beauty quickly erased almost all memories of scrub above, and this was even more so as we eventually began our journey upstream to the falls, sometimes walking in the river, and at others, along the banks.

Orites Falls are a jewel sparkling in an already glorious crown. We were all shocked at how very beautiful they were, especially after some disappointing cascades earlier in the day. The remoteness from any hint of tracks, or signs warning us that nature might lead us to slip or drop trunks on our heads – the sheer improbability that another human would come that way – all helped to increase the special feeling of the place. Needless to say, there were no bits of toilet paper left by tourists of the bush, no plastic detritus that the tourists couldn’t be bothered taking out. Just nature, pure, simple, magnificent. Here was perfect escape.

Back at camp, almost everyone except wuss here went swimming. I was starving and ate an entire packet of Kooee beef jerky, made from Cape Grim beef. I must have sweated a bit this day, as the idea of anything sweet was anathema, and I really craved something savoury like the jerky. I followed it with salty veggie broth and felt ready to join the others for dinner had on our knoll. Next morning the valley farewelled us with a treat of a sunrise – very little colour, but subtle hues and a mist to die for. I love this place.

Route Day 2. That odd blip to the SE is just an aberration, probably caused by the dense rainforest confusing signals. You can see exactly where I lost my phone (gps), in the SW corner. The summit is about 70 ms from the spot, yet the phone took over half an hour to find (after summitting). Pity about flight mode :-(.  It was generally agreed that if doing it again, we would do that southern section of the loop higher (i.e., a bit further to the south) to avoid the scrub.

 

Chris’s excellent route out on day 3.
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Western Arthurs 2016 Feb (in the rain)

Western Arthurs in the rain: Paddy Pallin once wrote words to the effect that one of the aspects of bushwalking he loved was the way it intensified normal existence (my words) and made him newly appreciative of life’s little pleasures. A glass of wine by an open fire is twice as good after a period of deprivation. A bushwalker never takes the joy of a hot shower for granted. The simple things of life retain their power to delight.

And so it was for Angela and me as we sat in The Possum Shed having lunch yesterday. Once we’d descended Moraine A, Angela looked at her watch and announced we could make it to Westerway for lunch. I agreed. She was away, splashing through all the puddles, not caring about mud holes. Zoom. I trotted behind, somewhat laden with my tripod, glass filters and heavy camera. Our packs were now weighty with all our wet gear, but that did not deter. The thought of real, hot, delicious food, consumed in pleasant surroundings spurred us on. It certainly felt good to be there at last and announce to our husbands that we’d be home early. During the night, I had greatly feared that the river at the track junction would be uncrossable, so much rain had fallen, so was doubly relieved. We might have been there for days; I had saved food accordingly.

This trip marked the end of Angela’s long summer holiday. She’d taken a month off work so as to climb Federation and do the whole Western Arthurs Traverse. Through a series of mishaps – disappointing cancellations, fires, bad weather and injuries – these hopes had been greatly diminished. We had still done a number of great climbs, but not the ones intended, and now the Western Arthurs were being reduced to a mere three-day expedition due to weather and my dubious foot. Angela has not explored this region, so was excited even by the reduced agenda. Now she has been there but seen next to nothing.

Unfortunately on day one, Angela was adding another chapter to her book on Summits to Spew on (it had been very hot climbing), so I killed the hours at my disposal once we had selected our campspots, climbing lumps and bumps and photographing, although the light was very dull and flat. Disappointed, I retired to my tent, and watched the grey, matt landscape as I cooked and ate dinner, before going back out to try my luck – returning with a few shots that didn’t match my expectations. I sat staring at the scenery in a trance, waiting for darkness and bedtime. I had by this time, of course, packed up my tripod and GND filters, and put my camera to bed. Suddenly, a flash of colour penetrated my vague awareness. Mt Hesperus was aglow with the final rays of the day which had somehow (and most unexpectedly) pierced through a hole in the thick amassing cloud.

I had no time to alter settings or do anything. I grabbed my camera and shot and hoped. It lasted. I quickly changed ISO, f-stop, exposure and shot again, a woman possessed. It was still there. I had to get outside. I grabbed my boots, no time for laces, and shuffled outside to face the west. There was no time to set up, so I used a passing rock as a tripod and hoped for the best, sighing at the wasted effort of lugging all my equipment up moraine A to now have it sitting in my tent in my moment of need. The sudden flash of colour had woken Angela, so she joined me to share the beauty, and take pleasure in the fabulous scene that was our gift that evening.

By the second day, the rain had set in, but we donned our gear and headed for mountains to climb. The heavy rain, gusting, strong wind, slippery rocks and dark gloom changed our minds regarding our purpose, and we turned our spree into a walk to Square Lake and back. It was time to enjoy the minutiae of nature. The pinky-grey quartzite, green cushion plants and dislimned shapes that appeared and disappeared as we progressed gave us pleasure. It was nice to be moving. The denizens of the ten tents at Lake Cygnus were all tucked up in bed, but that is not our style. The price we paid for our excursion was to return to the tents drenched. Thoroughly, hideously sopping, I peeled off my disgusting layers, dropped them on the floor of my vestibule, and entered the dry inner sanctum of my aegis. After some effort, I was in dry clothes, snug in my sleeping bag, eating lunch with one hand poked out into the open, hoping that Angela didn’t want to begin our journey out after lunch. She didn’t. We spent the afternoon contemplating the existential pleasure of warmth and dryness.

On the third and final day, it was time to put on those tossed, detested items of clothing, a thought that had plagued me during the night, when I wasn’t practising drowning at the hands of a swollen river. It rained while we depitched, but things couldn’t get any worse. Rain was now, quite literally, water off a duck’s back. The track was a ribbon of water, across the grey-green moor, and two sodden girls went walking, walking, walking, two sodden girls went walking, right to the mountain door.

 

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Jukes 2016 Feb

Mt Jukes Feb 2016
How do you make plans when different sources of information advise very different times for a mountain? Angela and I were in a bit of a quandary when sorting out our Jukes-day, as we had received conflicting expectations as to how long the exercise would take. Would we have time for two mountains, or just one? How early did we need to set out from home on the long drive south? In the end, we decided to be conservative, and allocated six hours to the task, as suggested by the Abels book.

Earlier, on the way up

The weather was not brilliant, but, well, we’d just driven a very long way and were going to climb this mountain, whatever. Somewhat unenthusiastically, we donned gaiters, boots, overpants and anoraks and set out into the gloom, taking a compass bearing so we could find a mountain at the end of it. None was evident at the time.

Angela at the summit, trying to reassure herself that she really has arrived at Jukes summit

Up we headed on bearing, with me setting the pace as I’m injured. The bushes were drenching, and I got soaked, but didn’t expect that my single swipe of droplets rescued Angela from much. At least the day was not freezing (until we hit the wind at the top, that is).

After thirty minutes’ climbing, whilst sidling around a rocky bluff to the left that we had both agreed looked more promising than the right, we happened upon a little cairn. Given that we could see absolutely nothing, this smile from a stranger was most welcome – and especially so as some slight scrambles up the very slippery rock were now in order. When heading up slimy rock faces in deep mist, it is quite reassuring to know your decision to go that way has the blessing of people who have gone before.

We came, after an hour, to a big cairn on a flattish section, which, given the fact that we could see nothing of what lay ahead, we assumed was the spot height 1038. On we climbed. Huge, steep, leering bluffs emerged out of the mist – amorphous giants which we assumed we had to climb, but which a pad, to our relief, sidled. However, at one point the apparent pad took us to the edge of a drop of about four or perhaps five metres. There was a bit of a crack that could no doubt be employed in dry weather if you were nice and tall, but that was a very long drop down to uneven, jaws-open rock should things go awry, and being small with only one functioning foot, I completely lacked confidence for an attempt at this. Meanwhile, to immediate right and left were drops of even more suicidal heights. Had I inveigled Angela to do a huge drive and climb part way up a mountain in the rain to now call a halt? I felt stricken with guilt, but still lacked the courage to give the drop a go. I turned to her shamefacedly: “I’m really sorry Angela, but I just don’t dare.” Luckily, she also considered it dangerous, so we retraced our steps to an area behind the bluff, and hunted for a viable alternative, which we found to the north. Phew. Maybe we are going to get up this mountain, wherever it is,  after all. But how many other such challenges and obstacles lay in the undefined gloom ahead?

It appears, none. In the surprisingly short time (given our expectations) of a shade less than two hours, we were standing on the summit of Jukes. Angela couldn’t believe it, so checked her gps innumerable times to ensure we weren’t cheating. I photographed, opining that the presence of the helipad said all. Given that my swollen and still coloured (and painful) foot necessitated a much slower pace than usual, it was most unexpected to cut the time by so much.

Although it drizzled all morning and then rained up on top, I adored this mountain, and can’t wait to go back with my tent and tripod. The huge bluffs and monstrous drops to our left as we climbed added drama and mystery to our quest. There was always the hint of an amazing “je ne sais quoi” that was not going to be revealed. The lack of definition gave free rein to the imagination. Also, the lack of horizons or view meant that the climber-mountain relationship was intensified. It was you and the mountain’s immediate environment and not much more. I enjoyed that intense experience. The cushion plants and greenery on top were delightful. Green and grey make a wonderful combination.

The way down was faster than the ascent, giving us more than two extra hours in our day. However, rather than using them “profitably” to climb a second, unplanned mountain, we chose the rather indulgent option of firstly, hot chocolate and cake in Queenstown, and then something a little more healthy at Derwent Bridge Hotel. My foot was quite painful, even after the shorter-than-expected climb, and I was tired from the unaccustomed concentration required to prevent further injury. I rather think that when my physio said I could try a day walk this week, she didn’t quite have a slippery Mt Jukes in mind. But then, she’s been my physio since 1990, so perhaps she did.

To reach the start, google Mt Jukes Rd, which you will begin on at Lynchford, south of Queenstown. Follow it south etc, winding around the Jukes Range until you reach its high point. Park and climb up Jukes as above.

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Horizontal Hill 2016 Feb

Horizontal Hill 8 Feb 2016

Angela on top of Horizontal Hill, the Guardians behind
Our friend, Mark, first mooted the idea of climbing Horizontal Hill in the dead of last winter, when the nights were frozen and the days icy. I wanted to climb this too, but had decided reservations, for the route involves a 350ms wade through Lake Marion before you begin ascending. I thought about wearing my wetsuit, and meanwhile bought a pair of light, padded Wellingtons. I was not looking forward to the ordeal, but, as Malcolm Fraser said, “Life wasn’t meant to be easy”, and well, you take what comes in this business of trying to climb all the Abels.

Moody sunrise at Lake Marion
Luckily, on the appointed day, it was snowing, as well as icy and freezing, and we climbed Mt Hobhouse instead. We waited for the next opportunity, but other mountains pushed the queue for one reason or another, until last weekend, when I noticed that, with a little rearrangement of several programmes, our old intrepid trio could climb this together before returning to our separate agendas. Now hyperthermia and dehydration could replace hypothermia – a much more comfortable way to damage your body.
Now, the dreaded icy lake was a delightful warm bath. Padded Wellingtons were replaced by open crocs and the wetsuit allowed to continue gathering dust in the laundry. The wade was fun, even if I did keep sinking, and then we left the water behind to head upwards on bearing through rather lovely pandani forest, travelling towards the head of a pointy spur. Punishment for the unexpected ease here was the inevitable band of scoparia, but I have seen a lot worse and we swallowed our medicine, and in under two hours were doing the last climb up a sandstone cliff to the summit area, to at last sit up there and eat and drink in both view and water.

Our route up Horizontal Hill
Next morning, after a relaxed beach breakfast, Angela and I set off for our next goals, vi.z, Falling Mountain and Castle Crag.
http://www.natureloverswalks.com/castle-crag-falling-mountain/
It was actually too hot to climb them that afternoon, so we got ourselves into position for an early assault in the coolness of the next morning. It was good we didn’t go up that afternoon, as Angela was not feeling at all well, and the next day she found a tick on her body that we assume was the cause of the malaise.
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Massif, Geryon North, Du Cane Range 2016 Jan

Mt Massif, Geryon North and the Du Cane Range High Point  Jan 2016.

Mt Geryon at sunset. Day One: from the Pool of Memories
Surely it is impossible to look at Mt Geryon and not be impressed by its shape and slope, and the way it yells “impossible” at you when you think of climbing its vertical slopes. It’s a mountain that demands – and receives – respect. It is one of those mountains that I never dreamed I would be able to climb, but something has changed, and here I stood, ready to give it a go.

Meanwhile, my love affair with Mt Massif dates back to 2011, and has  its provenance and inspiration in Dave Noble’s blogsite, where I stared at his pictures and wanted to go there and sleep on top. At last I stood on the startline to do just that.

Du Cane Range High Point, with the stick jutting out of the cairn kind of thing

Day One was unexpectedly “interesting” in that we encountered a guy who wandered into our company after being missing for over thirteen hours. He had no raincoat, no food, no map, compass, torch or phone (it had run out of battery at about 10pm). Whatever else one might need, he didn’t have that either, but he did have an excellent camera and quality tripod, so (in that regard) was a man who had priorities akin to my own.

Day Two: traversing the rocky scree around Mt Massif

He didn’t really know where he had come from, couldn’t say if he had come downhill at all, chose a random (but impossible) lake on the map as a place he thought he had passed, yet we managed to somehow work out that he had reached us from Lake Elysia, most fortuitously wandering east and not west, where people do not get found. He had gone to the Pool of Memories to photograph stars, got whited out and disoriented, and so thought it was a good idea to wander aimlessly all night and into the next day. The fact that he found people might unhappily reinforce this dangerous modus operandi. Meanwhile, others at Elysia had reported him missing, so helicopters were circling overhead. Dave from our group luckily had a satellite phone, so called the police and S&R to report the lost as found. However, two hours later – due to lack of communication from one department to another, one can only assume – they were still flying around, trying to find the found.

Day Two, Big Gun Pass: The Gun

We had set off with him to return him to his tent under escort, managing to use sign language near the Parthenon saddle to at last convince the police buzzing above that we had him. He certainly gave the bushwalkers up there plenty to talk about that weekend. He had the generosity and insight to thank our group for saving his life. He’s one lucky guy. I should have grabbed the opportunity and tried to swap my lunch for a sony A7, but he still seemed to know what was valuable.

Day Two. Vaughan surveys the abyss

Day Two. After a day one where our goals were a long shot off the focus, we settled down to business this day …. except that the weather didn’t. As a result, we danced around in fog for 1.5 hours hoping it would change its mind and be merciful to my Mt Hyperion desires, but it would have none of it. Frustrated, I left the others who were munching lunch in the drizzle, and at least collected the Abel of the Du Cane Range High Point before I ate. Now I had bagged something I felt a bit more relaxed.
And so we wended our way towards the famous Big Gun Pass, with a compass bearing so we might find it. There were no vistas today, but the sight of the Big Gun as a clouded silhouette in the misty ambient gloom was even better. Views could come later.

Day Two. Vaughan surveys a different abyss. He’s getting pretty good at this.

The way up the other side looked particularly steep to this group of heavily laden walkers, but everyone dug in and climbed well, and the high point was soon in sight. Eagerly we each pictured a kind of summit cairn with pastures of green grass to camp on stretching beyond: a veritable land flowing with milk and honey. And what were we given? Not just a wasteland of wild, slippery rocks, but ones whose trajectory was a very sharp slope downwards. We stared over the abyss with dismay. In silence the group sat for a fifteen minutes’ rest taking in the disappointment, conjuring up energy for the unexpected task ahead. If we could find a safe passage down that, we would then have to wind our way laboriously around the rocks to the grassy funnel we could see that must lead to the bowl beneath the summit further away. Straight ahead was a monstrous cliff wall that you couldn’t scale even with ropes.

Day Two. On top of Mt Massif at last. One of many views from one of many possible summits.

A route was found, and we lowered ourselves down the cracks and rocks to a place from which we could contour around, a group of sick crustaceans with all limbs attached to the black mossy rocks, trying to prevent slides into injury.

Day Two: a sorry sight. Fires raging behind Cathedral. You can also see another fire front back left. You cannot see any helicopters dropping water to save these gentle tree giants.

Once the tension of the traverse was over, the others quite sensibly wanted to relax and set up camp, but I am not able to relax if something is not finished, so grabbed my gps and set off for the summit, visiting all interesting high points up there for their different photographic angles, checking at the end that my blue line had landed on the actual summit at some point. There was no happy celebratory group with handshakes and high fives like there had been on the Eldons. It was a most anticlimactic summit for one that had been desired for so long.

Day Two: Mt Massif summit. An unusual view of Ossa, Pelion West, Thetis and more. Cradle back right.

Day Two: a different view of Ossa et al

Day Three presented itself as a marvellous collection of diamonds and pearls strewn carelessly all over the grass in every direction. The mist was enchanting. We were not in a rush, so the pace was leisurely as we enjoyed all these sights and the feeling of total bliss that comes with being in a place like this.

Day Three: fabulous sunrise views from Massif

The route over the rocks was much quicker in this direction, and there were no dismaying surprises, as long as you discount Rolfe’s cracking a rib. It seems quite the fashion these days. Mine is ten days out from being broken, so I had no trouble understanding the pain he was now in. As a result, a small subgroup went straight back to camp after lunch while the remaining ones headed for Geryon North.

Day Three. Rob and Cam arrive to check out the early light. You can see our tents below.

We arrived at the black dot on the map, and the group proclaimed it as Geryon North and cheered. However, I am an honest peak bagger, and knew that this flattish hill (with very impressive cliffs) did not fit the bill despite its cute black dot and height of 1507. The real Geryon North has a much higher height and it was staring at me across the abyss. Would anyone else come with me this time? Vaughan said yes. Hoorah. Then Rob and Cam joined in. More joy. Off we set while the others sat down for a rather dull spectator sport.

Action in the mist

 

Day Three. Climbing back up to be allowed to climb down to Big Gun Pass

The watchers reported that it looked very dangerous. Vaughan recounted how his new role as father to a toddler and baby gave him a new purpose to be alive. Rob (father) admonished Cam (fouteen-year-old son) to be careful every two minutes. Louise was lead by the summit fever that always overtakes her, but is no risk taker. We were being careful, but Vaughan did say he found this climb harder than Federation in its technicality. We had to back out of a few manoeuvres; there was some light grunting, handholds where limbs couldn’t reach the only rock one on offer, helping pushes or pulls and eventually the team made it. This time there was joy at the top, and we all joined hands to touch. The views, of course, were breathtaking. Sure, you can hire a helicopter and get the same thing, but you will never get the joy that grated fingertips and slightly lacerated gear in your effort to get there will give you.

Cam on the lump called Mt Geryon that is not Geryon North yet

Here is our goal, up nice and close now. East face looks quite exciting

And here is one from the tippy top

Before the others set out for the Pool of Memories, we had seen from high above that someone had dared to beat us to the pool; a little red tent was in “my” spot. This person obviously had good taste in views, but must be evacuated. We instructed our forerunners to be rude and raucous and thus drive them away. When we at last descended and I met the fellows, however, I decided to be raucous but skip the rude bit. These were people who were my friends in Instagram and here they were in the flesh: the fabulous Luke Tscharke, Tim Wrate, Francois Fourie, and Dylan Toh. I was delighted to hear they had consulted this blog when deciding where to go for their trip. As a result, the paparazzi lineup for sunset was quite amusing. Now I didn’t feel at all silly lugging 3 kgs photographic equipment all this way.

Mt Geryon says “good night”. Pool of Memories.

And here is sunset looking in the opposite direction.

Day Four. We climbed down – reluctant to leave this place, yet refreshed from it – to resume our daily lives, descending through glorious rainforest to the Geryon Climbers’ Camp in the valley below, and thence to Pine Valley and eventually to the lake where we killed about three hours throwing stones waiting for the ferry.

Love rainforest. Hate, hate to think of it burning further east.
Route up Mt Geryon North from near Du Cane HP – please note. This is only for the experienced and confident.
 The map to Mt Massif is also available on request.