Abel | Natureloverswalks

June 19, 2022

Quamby Bluff 2022

The first time I climbed Quamby Bluff (Jan 2013), I thought it was a disgrace that I lived so near, yet had not climbed it before. Today I climbed it for the second time, and this time thought it was a disgrace that this was only my second summitting. It seems I am easily disgraced by Quamby.

Now you might be reading this at a totally different time of year (it is mid winter here), or you might be sitting in some other country where it is summer and nice weather right now, so I had better tell you that the day I chose for my second summitting was forecast to start raining at about 9 a.m (although this got moved back whilst I ate a hurried breakfast). BoM said the rain would continue for the rest of the day. There would thus be no view, but I thought the forest should be beautiful, so off I set.

Cortinarius austrovenetus (old) Quamby forest

We have had brilliant dumps of snow in the last two weeks, but the day was mild (about 9 degrees while I drove), so I thought the snow would probably have melted by now. I was right. There were only two patches of skating rink. I had my mini crampons on board, just in case.

I didn’t bother taking lunch, as it is only a short climb, even if I was intentionally going to allow myself to be distracted by beauty along the way. My camera was strapped to my chest as usual.I was very restrained in the matter of fungi, stopping only once the whole way, but the beautiful thick coatings of moss on the trees and the rich brown humus were another matter, and I gave them due attention as I climbed.

Down the base of the mountain there was a stunning amount of fallen timber – trees lying everywhere thanks to the recent high winds. Branches, trunks, trees leaning on trees that were themselves broken. The path was all but impossible to find under the gigantic piles of rubble. Progress was slow, and I hoped there’d be less devastation up higher. Those hopes were realised. Once I’d climbed out of the valley, the trees were looking like trees, and beautiful ones at that. The moss couldn’t have been healthier or happier. Most fungi were brown and past their prime.

Up on the flat top of the mountain, the wind picked up and the clouds rolled around me. It got very dark, and even a little spooky. Visibility was about ten metres or so, but I was never there to see the view. I touched the summit cairn and turned around to get back into the protection of the forest down lower. Given how many trees were lying on the ground, I was happy to finish the walk and go to the Raspberry Farm for a small lunch before having a bigger one back home. And I now have a kilo of strawberries to have with pancakes over the next week.

3.25 kms x 2 with 507 ms vertical climb yields 11.57 km equivalents.

May 26, 2022May 26, 2022

Wedge 2022

It was not actually our original intention to climb Mt Wedge this weekend. We were here for the long-awaited ascent of Mt Field West, a climb that is now assuming saga proportions. I announced last December that I wanted to climb Field West with young Gus. It would be a long day for him, so I thought we’d need to camp down by the river at the base to avoid driving from Hobart to add to the day’s length. But that long summer holiday period got filled with a large number of tennis camps and suddenly it was time to resume the new school year. Sometime or other it would happen, and now my daughter wanted to come too.

Then she said we could all (five of us) stay at a cottage near the park as part of my birthday celebrations, and do Field West on one of the days. I phoned to make the booking. Full on my birthday. Full the weekend after. Full, actually, until after Anzac day. But then there was the problem of the school cross country race: he would be tired after doing Field West, so again the date got pushed back.

Tra la. It was to be last weekend, the one after the school XC. Trouble is, on the day the race should have taken place, at recess, Gus broke his arm, and was then in plaster from shoulder to finger tips. There was to be no race, and also, no Field West. He could not cross the icy, jagged rocks of the Rodway Range with a newly broken arm. We would need to settle for something less taxing. Mt Wedge was not too far away, and was definitely an easier climb, which wouldn’t involve him using his plastered arm. Wedge it was.

The last time I climbed Wedge was 2014. In the eight years since then, I have forgotten how absolutely beautiful the forest was. It was especially wonderful last weekend as there were more fungi than twigs decorating the forest floor. Everywhere you looked there were more, mostly in clusters. I wanted to have lunch on the summit, and we had not set out particularly early, so I disciplined myself to only take maybe five fungi photos on the way up.

A special treat was in store for us when we burst out of the forest: we were already above the clouds. Gussy has never been up above the clouds like that before, and was suitably excited. Below, the valley was shrouded in mist, but up here, the sky was blue and the sun was shining. We could see the high peaks like Field West or Mt Anne poking as indigo and white silhouettes above, and the rest was a sea of pure white cotton wool below us, with occasional fog bows.

It was even mild … or maybe we were just warm from the climb; there was no wind at all. The ground was a little damp, but we sat on rocks and used the heli pad as a table on which to spread out our goodies. We were even joined by a couple who had moved to Tassie from Melbourne in the last year, up there with their baby who toddled about the pad. It was a fun picnic.

There was no rush on the way down – quite the opposite, as Gus needed to take especial care of his arm going downhill. That gave me time to photograph a few more fungi. I think that makes it eleven Abels for him, aged ten.
And maybe one day we’ll get to do Mt Field West.

February 28, 2022

Guardians, Gould 2022

What do you do when you’ve finished climbing all the Abels? Why, you go straight back to revisit your favourites, of course! Don’t you? Well, I did, and do.

I had already begun on this delightful mission, as some favourites were a lot easier to reach than some of the ones I hadn’t yet climbed. This week I continued with favourites, and reclimbed Mt Gould and The Guardians. For at least ten years I have wanted to sleep by the tarn near the summit of The Guardians, and also on Gould Plateau. This would be my third summiting of Gould, and my second of The Guardians. All previous climbs had been far too fast. This time, I wanted to linger up high.

Guardians summit to leeawuleena and Mt Olympus

These two mountains are rather close to each other. My bash buddy and I had two full days and nights at our disposal, with a booking on the 9 a.m. ferry on day 3. The way to organise this dream then was to have a very long day 1, a super-cool and relaxed day 2 and a dash for the splash on day 3.

I got to enjoy a beautiful dawn at leeawuleena (Lake St Clair) before day 1 officially began with the ferry ride, so I was already floating with beauty (and had already taken far too many photos) by the 9 a.m. journey to the end of the lake with other excited walkers – all except us from interstate.
The first two splits were nice and quick, and we were at Pine Valley Hut after only 2 hrs 6 mins’ walking.

By the time we climbed to the Parthenon saddle, the day had started to warm up. I was still in my famous pink (now maliciously torn) coat, and overheated terribly, but we were setting a great pace and still had heaps of distance before us, so I didn’t feel like breaking the rhythm by stopping. I like doing climbs without interruption, so I sweated a fury and just put up with the heat. I was glad to breast the final bump to the saddle, throw off my nuisance pack and have a welcome drink. Were we half way yet? I fear not.
The day got hotter, so the going got tougher. We carried a lot of water for the next section over the Minotaur, knowing there would be none until we reached a basin beyond the summit, near the Minotaur-Gould saddle.

As we approached said basin, we saw rather a lot of tents down there in the middle of nowhere. It was a bunch of Victorians, most of whom were recovering from what they described as a horrendous bush bash the previous day around the belly of Gould – a patch I have done twice already, so know what they were talking about. Their voices and faces said more than their words about how they felt about that section of their trip. It can certainly be an unforgiving area, as we would re-experience next day.

Most of them were lying in the sun, relaxing and enjoying the calm while two of them were climbing The Guardians. They were nice people and there was water there, so we tossed off our packs and spent at least half an hour chatting to them. My watch said we now had oodles of time. All need for haste had long-since vanished. We reckoned it would only take another hour or so to reach the summit of The Guardians from there, so forgot the watches and enjoyed the company of fellow walkers with similar interests.

Eventually we bid farewell and set off for the final section. Unfortunately this lasted a bit longer than expected, as my stomach started cramping and I felt very sick. Twice I needed to lie in the grass to alleviate the pain. We have decided the puddle in the Parthenon saddle wasn’t as pure as its clarity suggested. Anyway, I was sure glad to see the tarn, dump my pack, pitch my tent and be horizontal for long enough to soften the cramps. It all eased surprisingly quickly, so we decided to summit while the going was good, play around the cliff tops for a little and then have dinner as the final act of the day.

Of course, it wasn’t my final act, and after eating, I set back out to photograph, but I was glad our order of events had been what it was, as the temperature was already dropping to be near its promised minus one over night, and my hands were freezing; the wind was cold. Later, my tent would flap noisily for most of the night. I was too lazy and warm to go out and tighten the guy ropes until about 2 a.m., when I decided enough was enough, and left my warm and cosy aegis to attend to the noise.

We had no busy agenda for day 2, and I am not sure that I’ve ever had such a slow first half of a day. I observed sunrise mostly from the comfort of my tent (it wasn’t magic) and then had breakfast cooked in the vestibule, looking out my peep holes to see how the day was progressing. It was time to depitch, but my tent was sopping, and so was Andrew’s, so we went for an explore along the cliffs not yet visited to give the tents time to rid themselves of heavy water.

Well. That coped with the problem of what to do with a long day and not too many kilometres to fill it. We didn’t reach the pack dump point on Gould until 11.30. I hate going uphill slowly, so we didn’t loiter on the “straight-up” climb, where I was in my element doing what I call a pussycat climb – all four limbs working like a feline. The trip down was more like a huge slide at the playground. Loved it. Nice and quick!

We still had a huge number of hours to fill in and even less distance to cover, so strung out lunch. It would have made much more sense to continue on to Narcissus, but I had my heart set on sleeping up high. I told Andrew to feel free to go down and I would join him on the morrow, but I really did want to sleep high.

Well; I managed to fill in at least one of those spare hours by landing us in a shocking patch of absolute, unadulterated YUK. All was going just fine. I’d led us around the belly in the bushes very nicely, and then we’d dropped down right on cue to a beautiful mossy gully area. Then along. And then we found two random pink tapes running perpendicular to our line of travel. I checked my map. No, we weren’t to go up or down here, as suggested by the tapes, but we explored both up and down on the off chance. Both led to blockades of scoparia. But, … so did straight ahead. There seemed to be no nice way to go anywhere. And why on earth were there two tapes here in the middle of nowhere, with no beginning and no end? Where was the taper going? It was very confusing.

We to’d and fro’d and up’d and down’d and were irretrievably stuck. I got out the gps where I had tracked the route the last time I had done this. We were on it. Oh. Yuk. We shoved and pushed, we climbed over the top of bushes, grunting and heaving our way to nowhere much. But, if you shove for long enough you kind of get somewhere, so eventually we got to the plateau below.
I was absolutely exhausted in a way I don’t often experience. My hip flexors and glutes were aching even without taking a step. I was absolutely done in, and very glad that my planned bed for the night was only a shortish distance away. Any snail on the planet would have beaten me as I inched my way to the tarn.

Hoorah. There. Andrew didn’t like my tarn, so chose a spot that he felt was more sheltered and more comfortable and a tiny bit nearer to the next goal of the ferry. My spot was chosen for its photographic opportunities. I wandered and shot and had a lovely evening, singing seeing’s I had the freedom to do so.

The next morning involved an early start, as we still had what might possibly take two hours to do (it only took 1 hr 38, but you need to allow for emergencies). I passed Andrew’s tent spot, but he had left earlier (we had agreed to meet at the ferry and not at his spot), so it was a crisp business-like stride-out down the steep slope and along to the ferry. I only stopped for photos once, when a beautiful patch of Aurantiporus pulcherrimus specimens caught my eye. My legs seemed to have completely recovered from the previous day’s scoparia battle. I still have bruises and scratches to remind me that it wasn’t all easy, however.

February 10, 2022

Camp Hill 2022

“Camp Hill! Why on earth have you saved THAT until last? “, N asked.
“Well, why on earth would you do something like Camp Hill unless you absolutely had to,” was my response.
But when you are only one Abel short of a complete set, and that one is, you guessed, Camp Hill, then you have to do it if you want to complete, and I did, so that was that. Funnily, nobody much seemed to want to come too. Excuses were many and varied. In desperation, I resolved to go it alone. My bashbuddy, Andrew, perhaps fearing for my life as well as my sanity, agreed to come too, trying very hard to rationalise his stupidity to himself: “It will come in handy for later.” Good one Andrew.

Even more mysterious was the message from a friend, Rita, whom I had met in the wilderness, who said at the last minute that she was free to come as well. Did she know exactly what she was letting herself in for? Oh well; she does now. She loves adventures, and this was to be a double one. I did say – was it to one or both? – that if they had any ancestors who had been knights in yesteryear, then they should raid the relevant museum for the armour, just for the trip. It was not going to be a place to wear clothes they valued.

So, there we were at the startline: the magnificent Collingwood River, which is crossed before the big climb begins. The light was magic; the water, a honeyed colour, quietly wending its way over a wonderful collection of coloured boulders beneath.

That was to be our very last water for a very long time, so we carried plenty – enough to last for a long, hot, uphill haul with nothing available before we would scout around for something to enable dinner to take place. The skies were cloudless and already you could feel the heat. Much of our day would be out in the open, which makes for thirsty work. Well, here we were. What would be, would be. I was going to get to this summit even if I had to crawl there. Famous last words: I did (have to crawl, and snake, and waddle like a sick duck).

The early forest was really beautiful , and we didn’t take it for granted. Before it was time for our second break, we had already left its shady greenness, exchanging it for scrubby melaleucas and then for buttongrass expanses.
We were gaily walking along, chatting away in the middle of very remote wilderness, and I hear a voice saying: “That must be Louise Fairfax.” It was Nick “weetbix” from the bushwalking forum, who knew from other friends that I wanted Camp Hill. There is no actual pad where we all were, and he was following a line below ours, but, hearing us, he came up to say “Hello”. It was a fun chance encounter. On our return, we labelled this bump “Weetbix Hill”. He was on his way out, and confirmed what we already knew: viz., that there was hardly any water out there.

On we pressed. Soon enough, we were on a different high point, which I have always called Rocky South, from which both our goals were now visible – “both” being Rocky Hill, and our ultimate goal, Camp Hill. (Why is an Abel over 1100 metres high, with a drop of 150 ms all around given the insulting sobriquet “hill”??) We would spend the night on Rocky, and attack Camp next day.

We enjoyed the summit of Rocky, pitched our tents just beneath it, and then needed to solve the water problem. Off we set with carrying equipment and all our water storage capabilities. I had a 6 litre bladder which would do me. We dropped off the mountain on a pretty direct route, being guided by a friend’s one from the past. Hm. It was @#$%* awful. We voted to not return by that line, and dismissed him as a creditable source of information. But first, we needed to locate water from the low area we were now in. The initial few creeks were now ex-creeks, so the search continued. We wanted water, not mud. Lots of water. All we found were puddles, but I tasted the drop in the deepest (still far too shallow), and it was sweet, so we filled up. Weetbix later told me that he was entertained with visions of us searching hundreds of yabby holes in endless succession up the top for kilometres, in a vain search for water.

Anyway, we now had some, and began to climb the mountain again, much heavier. The first part was easy and lovely, but then the pad ended abruptly. Hating the descent further east, we opted to try a somewhat more direct route up. Rita reckons this was the hardest part of the whole trip. Ultimately, we had to climb a cliff via the interwoven branches of a nothofagus gunnii (common name – Tanglefoot – for a reason) , and using that height, haul ourselves up by tree roots to breast the rise over the cliff that blocked us. We laughed about our adventure as we walked the final bit back to our tents. Now we had enough water to last at least 20 hours.

Rocky Hill campsite. Frenchman also visible

Sunset that night was wonderful. Rita and I sat together on the summit, taking in the loveliness of the first orange and then more pastel fading light. Only when there was basically no light left did we reluctantly lose a tiny bit of height to go to bed.
Day 2. We knew this would be another hot day, and we also knew it would probably be a waterless one, so we left armed with what we would need to fund the day. For every step that was easy, I gave thanks, for I knew it would not, could not, last. The ease left kind of gradually, with the scrub getting thicker in small degrees as we progressed.

Down we dropped off Rocky (very easy) and up the next nameless lump (not too bad), then, hm, down to a saddle of ill repute, with the scrub getting more vigorous in its lack of welcome with every step. The saddle was described by the book as “bushy”. Nothing else had been, so I feared the worst. Also, a friend had recounted horror stories, so when we veered every so lightly off the line of ridges and into a pandani forest, we were all very happy, and voted to stay there and go below the saddle. We loved it. This pandani forest was our favourite part of the route, and we all considered it well worth the extra distance and climb. Even in those desiccated conditions, you could still imagine the moss to be fresh and lush; the cliffs to drip soothing water. The pandani had marvellous shapes and we were cool and happy there.
More bush fighting took place, and at last we were staring at our summit, which was so very close, just “up there”, and I thought we were maybe twenty minutes away, max. Ha ha. I also thought we’d done the worst. Another ha ha. After a quick drink, we set out for the final push.

The tents below as we set out for Camp Hill

Forget the word “easy”. We were met with a total blockade of bush too high to go over, too dense to go around. Russian troops on the Ukrainian border, eat your hearts out. This bush knows how to repel invaders. Now, here we encountered a little problem: Rita and Louise are small. We found we could crawl like wombats, slither like snakes and waddle like demented ducks and with enough weaving, pushing and grunting, a way through could be achieved, as long as you didn’t mind forest getting in all your underclothes, filling your socks and tangling your hair. Andrew, being taller, did not quite have these options, so he chose a different route, and we met at the end of assorted tunnels. Andrew and Rita tore their pants. I ripped my famous pink jacket. My shoes lost some stitching. Our arms were scratched and pin-cushioned and mine now have purple bruises all over them. BUT, we got there.

Pandani forest under the saddle between a lump and Camp. We loved it there

That was it. I have now climbed all the Abels. I still don’t quite believe it. That was something other people did, not people the likes of little old me. We touched together, and then sat for absolute ages beside what would normally be a tarn, but was now a sort of lizard-skin pattern of dried, cracked ex-mud. We turned our backs to it and to the sun, and gazed out at the view to the west, snacking and drinking. Our day had no other big plans; there was no rush to be anywhere. We just sat and enjoyed.

Rita enjoying a late dinner in her tent. Rocky South

Back at camp later, we had a second lunch – for me, a feast of soup and some dip with biscuits, and a rest in stinking hot, march-fly attacking environs. My tent was unbearable but the flies were too bad if I remained outside. Luckily, Rita invited me to rest in her amazing tent that opens right up whilst having the netting remain closed to fly visitors. A breeze caressed my skin. It was beautiful.
The other two, being more normal drinkers than I am, did not have enough water left for us to stay here the night, so after resting, we packed up our tents, descended the mountain, collected water from a different puddle down below – enough water to last until the end of the trip (which is rather a lot), and then climbed Rocky South (1111 ms asl) to camp up there.

And from there, the rest was, as they say, downhill. Well, not quite. We had to undulate over Vague Hill, Weetbix Hill, Repair Knob and Pigeon House Hill before dropping back to the Collingwood River, mission complete. All of us will have to throw out most of the clothes we wore for this trip. My Kämpéla orienteering pants, however, stood firm. I have been wearing these same pants in orienteering competitions and bushwalks since the 1990s. Hoorah for Scandinavian fabric. I will keep wearing my torn pink jacket, however, as nobody might recognise me if I throw it away, and that would be sad. Old friends are good friends.

February 1, 2022

Federation Peak

“I’m setting out tomorrow to try to climb Federation Peak,” I told my friend. “I’m scared,” I added.
“Yes”, he said, “I can hear it in your voice.”
Oh.
“But Louise,” he wisely appended, “if you WEREN’T scared, I’d be worried about you.” Yes. He’s right. A little respectful fear is an asset. However, I rather think that I had far more than a little respectful fear. What I was feeling was more akin to uncontrolled terror. I had never felt quite like this before, and I have done some pretty scary things in my life.

Ever since the incredible email arrived from my friends Alex and Nitya asking if I’d like to join in on their attempt at Feder, I had been in an odd state of generalised anxiety. Every single night in my dreams, I fell off Feder. The only variable that altered was the amount I fell before the first bounce. I always woke before landing exactly in Lake Geeves 600 ms below. I guess my friends didn’t realise quite what a cot case I was when they were so foolish as to invite me.

I told myself that the drive to Hobart was actually more dangerous, with a much higher chance of death than Feder offered, but this statement of reason only mildly attenuated my fear. Sometimes you have to confront your worst demons, however. Sigh. Feder, here I come. If I live, I will be a better person in that I will have been made a bit stronger by jumping a seemingly insurmountable hurdle. I bid my dog an almost tearful farewell, took in my lovely home view for possibly the last time, and headed south.

The infamous Geeves Gully. You climb down that

Luckily for me, the CD I had in my car disc slot was mountain music. There is nothing more calculated to make me feel happy and confident than music from the Alps. You can belittle me for loving yodelling, alpine horns and the like, but you can’t ever stop them making me feel totally joyous. I arrived to meet my friends in a pretty good mood. Andrew, my climbing partner for some of my most fun and hardest peaks, was also coming, so the four of us were meeting up so that introductions could be done over coffee and sweet treats rather than on the track. I had met Alex and Nitya in a mountain hut eight years ago, and, although we have maintained email contact, I hadn’t seen them since.

Climbing the face of Federation. (Photo cred Alex)

Fast forward: now we are on the track. Our goal for day 1, Cutting Camp, just before Moss Ridge. It was to be a pretty long day. This part of the route was attractive, much of it being beside gurgling water on the Farmhouse Creek track, but after 8 hours 45 mins’ elapsed time (6 hrs 40 walking time: it was a VERY hot day), I was very happy to be dumping my rucksack. After dinner, two other guys from Melbourne, whom we had passed along the way, rolled into camp. Now we were a fun group of six. I wasn’t even scared now, just living in the moment and enjoying the company. I still had no commitment whatsoever to actually climbing, and thought I would back out of the real action fairly early once it began, but I was looking forward to sleeping on Bechervaise Plateau the next night.

Our programme for day 2 was to take the tents etc up to Bechervaise in the morning, have a rest, and then summit after lunch. Rob and Hugh, the two guys who were also in camp, hoped to do the walk in a day without the heavy packs. We original four set out nice and early after breakfast, up the amazing Moss Ridge. You could pay $500 to an amusement centre and not get such a fun obstacle course. I thoroughly enjoyed every moment. Not was it the best fun workout ever, but it was also, as its name implies, mossy – and green and cool and wonderful along with it. It climbs rather a lot.

And there we were at Bechervaise: place of great reputation, and the starting point for the climb in this direction. Just as we were about to set out again, Rob and Hugh arrived, with Hugh exhausted as he is suffering badly from “Long Covid”. His fatigue meant that he only wanted to lie down and rest while we climbed, so Rob joined our little party. It was such a happy group, it was hard to abandon myself entirely to fear. Off we set, up a slope that gains no mention anywhere, but which has pretty perpendicular sides with a sizeable drop should you decide to leap to the side with no care. I looked down and thought: “Oh heck. That drop is awfully exposed, and nobody even gives it half a thought. I just can’t do this, but I’ll go until I really can’t.”

Up we climbed, joining the infamous Southern Traverse, where a girl fell to her death just a few years ago. I haven’t actually a clue about which part of this traverse effected her demise, but was not in a mood to seek more specific information. All I can tell you was that when I looked down Geeves Gully to the lake 600 odd metres directly below, I freaked out (very quietly), and offered to go back. I hadn’t even got to the face of my mountain and I was terrified.

Luckily for me, Alex didn’t accept my offer, but, rather, encouraged me by telling me this was definitely reputed to be one of a very few extremely challenging (emotionally) bits. I broke it into sections. OK, I can go as far as there (pointing) and reassess. One ‘there’ led to another, and soon I was looking up at the chockstone which held no particular threat as far as I was concerned.

The rest of the climb has left very few details in my brain. I was there in body, but my mind was totally absorbed, concentrating on the moment, on the very immediate task of taking the next careful and safe step. Mostly I had the comfort of knowing that Alex was behind me, leading from the back. Immediately in front of me was Nitya, an extremely good climber who is small like me, so who was choosing “little person” routes and not necessarily those taken by the taller Andrew and Rob up ahead.

The light starts to get interesting as we linger longer. There’s no rush.

Sometimes the route became unclear. It seemed there were cairns everywhere and with no pattern. We had to explore several possibilities. This was done mostly by Andrew and Alex, so that gave me a little time to detox (and photograph).

I could never, ever, I am sure, have managed the testing ledges and “mound” without having Alex nearby, instructing me as to the next safe hand or foot hold, or just encouraging me that I had chosen the right one. Ahead was Nitya choosing a route over an obstacle I had been dreading rather than going around it as others had spoken about. I could do that. Hoorah. Soon Alex was telling me I had done all the hard bits. Now I just had to stroll up to the summit. I could feel it was true. This was an utterly unbelievable fact: meagre Louise Fairfax was about to summit Australia’s ne plus ultra when it comes to mountains. I had trouble holding back the tears as I took the final few steps. Rob said later he felt like an imposter being up there, and I totally got it. I was there, but only because of my team, because incredibly supportive and capable people had invited me to join them. But I was there, and to say I was “happy” is an understatement that brooks the absurd.

I had always thought (in anticipation), that I would be in a rush to get down, out of danger, but once there, I was totally comfortable, and there was no need at all to escape or to rush in any way. Our tents were not too far away, and there was still plenty of light. We ate, photographed and enjoyed the lingering moment before making a leisurely descent.

Going down is, they say, harder than ascending, and, technically, they are right, but for me the big obstacle was conquering the fearful enormity of just getting there, and Alex had been such a strength placed behind me, with Nitya before (and, of course, the others in front of that) that I felt confident I could do what I had just done in reverse. I felt no particular terror on the way down, merely the need to keep concentrating. The drop to Lake Geeves had not magically decreased; it was still necessary to do all the things I had done on the way up, and, most importantly for me, it was “keep three points of contact and don’t look down”.

We didn’t arrive at camp until 5.45. Considering one thing and another, we suggested the guys stay up with us, even though they had no food or bedding. We said we could feed them, and they did have a tarp. They stayed, which was fun to continue the party.

My final words before going to bed were: “Don’t you two go getting hypothermic; if you need to warm up, both Andrew and I can move over in our tents and make room for you.” Nitya and Alex’s tent was full.

Next morning Alex, Rob and I were up at 5.30 to photograph the beautiful dawn together. Alex asked me if I’d slept well, and I said: “Not really. Sorry Rob, I’m sure you were pretty cold, but I was too hot, and had to strip down to my undies.” It was then that I discovered the embarrassing fact that Rob and Hugh had both been freezing. Hugh had knocked on Andrew’s tent, and received hospitality. Rob came to mine and kept saying: “Louise. Louise. Are you awake?” Everybody else was, but Louise didn’t stir. Not a scrap. Alex thought maybe I’d managed to climb Feder but had now had heart failure. Nobody could rouse me. Poor Alex and Nitya, who had no room, manufactured some out of nowhere. I slept comfortably on (it seems). I heard the strong wind. I saw at times the bright moon. But I never once heard my own name being called – and I no longer fell off Federation Peak in my dreams!

On day 3, we all walked out from Bechervaise to the cars, with the most dangerous event being an electric storm that was rather enthusiastic. We were tired but happy. Unfortunately, there was nothing much open (I think it was Australia Day), so we had to settle for greasies in the gutter at Huonville. Somehow, to my warped sense of humour, this seemed a fun and fitting end to our unexpected adventure.

Last break before the cars. A happy group of friends

Why does one put oneself through something like that? It certainly wasn’t to give myself bragging rights, or to tick another box. I guess I – and most of the others who climb Feder – am a person who likes to be the most capable version of the me that is possible. I don’t push boundaries to be smart, but to fully “self-actualise” in Rogerian terms. Like Killian Jornet, I feel very alive when I have extended myself to do something I considered a difficult challenge. If I fail to do something, I want it to be because I am just not good enough rather than because I never gave it a decent attempt. Of course, to try something that you clearly can’t do, and which is dangerous, is mere stupidity. I guess I was lining up for Feder because I did feel I was ready if things went well. I was not committed to attempt it at any cost, because those people can die.

One tiny Boletellus obscurecoccineus was hiding right on the track near the end.

Cognitive Dissonance Theory says that if you expend a great deal of energy or time or money on a task, then, to avoid cognitive dissonance, you will rate that task as having been very worthwhile. Meanwhile, both Edmund Burke and Immanuel Kant, when examining their theories of the beautiful and the sublime in the 1700s, acknowledged that going to the very border of our fears and then retreating to safety leads to a feeling of expansion and joy that is labelled sublime. Both thinkers linked a feeling of the sublime with terror, danger, awe and pain. I went to the very borders of my fears and have retreated to safety. I feel a huge sense of wellbeing, expansion and satisfaction. I love Federation Peak. I confronted my greatest fears and came out alive.

Cantharellus concinnus liked a few moist spots

Before I close, I have to say that my debt extends further than to the fabulous people mentioned in this trip. I would like to publicly thank “tortoise” from the Bushwalk Australia forum, who talked to me about overcoming her own fears of Federation. Taking up her advice, I did a high ropes course out at Hollybank to practise being 25ms up in the trees with nothing under my feet but wobbly planks of wood and bits of rope. It was truly fantastic. And I did a climbing and abseiling course with Ian at https://www.mountainbiketasmania.com.au , which also helped to boost my confidence. I paid fully for both, and was not asked to say that. Both are small businesses which do not pollute the environment, and so I wish them well.