Abel - Natureloverswalks

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.

January 3, 2022

Precipitous Bluff

I had decided Precipitous Bluff (PB to its bushwalking friends) was beyond my capabilities. I had already been blown off the Southern Ranges by gales and blizzards seemingly countless times before. I had tried a solo venture last year, only to break my wrist and have to retreat after the first day. Then, my Bush Buddy friend Andrew and I had tried together just a few weeks ago, and were turned back on summit day by rain. Meanwhile, we had found the endless kilometres of thigh-deep mud, of resisting, prickly scoparia and the time-wasting, demoralising false leads to all be less than enjoyable to the extent that we declared in agreement we never wanted to return. I thought that meant I would never get PB, and would never get all the Abels. Oh well, such is life. There is a lot more to life than completing lists. When your soul mate dies, it helps you see things in broader perspective, and to realise the importance of staying alive and being with the people you love. Lists are just a game.

South Cape Rivulet far below. The journey has begun

Leisel Jones said about her swimming gold medals: “If you are not enough without a gold medal, you will never be enough with one.” I like those words, and I feel that way about Abels. If I am not enough of a person or a bushwalker without a complete set, I will not be a better one of either (person or bushwoman) with one. I have amassed many athletic prizes and achievements. If they don’t give me respect as a sportswoman, a complete set of Abels never will.

Typical forest through which we walked. Can you spot the Aurantiporus pulcherrimus?

But meanwhile, my friend Andrew is more persistent than I am, for which I am grateful. He phoned just before Christmas, telling me there was a weather window of opportunity to climb PB from below if I began my way south on Boxing day. We met up early on 27th for an assault on our old nemesis. I was unexpectedly free, having only very recently cancelled arrangements to go to NSW to celebrate the season with my Fairfax relatives, which I had reluctantly done because of the alarming rate at which Covid was spreading up there. The freedoms of less educated and more selfish members of that state brought about my captivity. However, the end result in this case is positive. I missed out on having family with me at Christmas, but gained a fabulous experience of a different kind.

Fomes hemitephrus specimens were in abundance in the lush forest.

But, returning to my theme that I considered PB to be beyond me: between the start line and the goal lay a lagoon: New River Lagoon, with waters deep and cold. I am short and skinny (ie, no protective adipose layer to warm me up, and the waters would come up much higher on my body than is the case for someone taller). I don’t like gelid water. I really could not envisage myself getting up this lagoon to climb the peak, let alone getting back.
Let the tale begin.
Day 1. (Hobart to) Cockle Creek to Granite Beach. 7 hrs 31 mins’ walking.
The first split, Cockle Creek to the ocean at Lion Rock went well. We were fresh, and although our packs were heavy, and although I tried to curb my excitement and slow down so as to pace myself for the long haul, we arrived at the coast in the tidy time of 1 hr 30. (On the rebound, trying to be fast and with lighter packs, it took 2 hours!)

Granite Beach waterfall. Boy was I glad to see that!

We tried to save time by going the low way around Lion Rock, but the rocks were very slippery and there were no readily available foot or hand holds, so we decided to go the long way over the headland for safety. Grr. I had done the short route with babies in yesteryear, running with a baby etc in my pack to avoid being smashed by waves. How did I do that?? Maybe storms or climate change have altered conditions since then.
It was still morning, but we had lunch at South Cape Rivulet anyway, just to give ourselves a break before the big grind up Flat Rock Hill. We had the campsite to ourselves. The water was a bit brackish, so I was glad we were moving on. Anyway, it was far too early to stop. On our return, this campsite would be so full it seemed like a tent ghetto: people and rubbish everywhere.
The South Cape Rivulet to Granite Beach section, in both directions, seemed like a big mud slog. I looked at the map, not at the time realising the quantity of mud, and still thought it would take many hours just to execute the climb, let alone the descent. I was pretty right. The mud was deep and diabolical (there had been quite a lot of rain in the recent past), and it seemed to go on for a long time. The highlight was seeing a ginger-coloured spotted quoll with shining pelt, right up close on one of our rests.

Blandfordia punicea – only one fresh one left on the route. Lots of old ones.

At long last, after a very steep descent that made me ponder what it would be like later in the reverse direction, we reached Granite Beach. Here we were met by the wonderful Rima, who offered to get water while I pitched my tent. That night we sat around a circle that also included Tabitha, Cat and Alex, and Emma and Chris. We talked books, the environment and more, and Cat who, with Alex, had climbed PB as part of this trip, gave me some really useful tips about negotiating the lagoon. She had harboured the same kinds of fears that I still held, but she had overcome them and succeeded. That gave me courage to at least give it my best effort. Thanks Cat if you are reading this.
I gps’d most of this route, but had to estimate a section that looked about 8 km equivs long with altitude. It seems the day was about 27 kms long, which is about right for the time taken.
Day 2. Granite Beach to Surprise Bay to Prion Beach to near the end of the New River Lagoon. 7 hours 30 mins’ walking and wading.
I actually felt really sad to leave our new-found friends behind, but our directions of travel were opposite, so on we pressed, firstly to the beautiful Surprise Bay. This only took an hour and a half, so that was good.

New River Lagoon campsite Day 2 at the end of the day

We had a lot to achieve this day, so didn’t linger, and pressed on. In this section, you climb a nameless knob that is quite taxing despite its lack of a name, go through a hot open marshy section, collect more nameless knobs and eventually walk along looking down on the outlet of New River Lagoon and out across the pure white sands of Prion Beach to the Ironbounds and islands to the west for what seems an eternity, before at last arriving at your goal (or temporary goal), hot and thirsty. Oh no. There is no fresh water – just tepid brackish lagoon water. Yuk! We had planned on a nice rest here, but I hated it. Not only was there no tempting water, but the place was full of plastic and foam rubbish washed ashore from ships. I found it totally repugnant and couldn’t get away fast enough. Luckily Andrew agreed. Well, if there was one impetus needed to get me into that lagoon, this was it. The other was that the tide was well past low by now, and the longer we delayed, the deeper the water would become. Like a deep sea diver, I kind of held my breath and plunged. Wade, wade. Hey. The water didn’t feel too bad at all. South Cape Rivulet had been so cold I had barely made it across, but this was much warmer. I could do this.

New River Lagoon from our tentspot 2.6K short of PB campsite

As Cat had warned, there were heaps of obstacles under foot, hidden by the depths and darkness. It wasn’t just a matter of wading. Four minutes after setting out, I tripped on something, and sat in the water up past my waist. I thought I had thereby wet everything precious to me (electronics and sleeping stuff, as well as the clothes I was wearing). Luckily, adrenalin had me standing up in a flash, and, in the end, nothing got irretrievably wet. Fortune was on my side: my coat and gear dried out as I walked, and I didn’t fall in again, despite being gusted and buffeted about by the wind that was building up and creating waves on the water that plashed against me.

Andrew with his tent at our New River lagoon campsite

What nobody had warned me about – maybe they didn’t experience it – was the absolute exhaustion involved in shifting boots that now weighed an absolute ton through kilometre after kilometre of thigh-deep water. My hip flexors and glutes began to absolutely ache with the exercise for which I was insufficiently trained, despite doing leg presses and other weights to the maximum of my ability in the gym. I thought my daily running up steep slopes would have prepared those muscles for almost anything, but it seems I was wrong. My gps told me later that the total distance was 7.55 kms of lagoon. Unfortunately, I was totally exhausted with about 2.6 kms to go. I could have pressed on until I dropped – I am that type – but reason suggested that even if I did that, I would absolutely not be in any shape to climb PB the next day, and if we were not doing that, we might as well stop for the night at this lovely little beach where we were having a rest with water nearby from an unmapped small creek. Luckily Andrew agreed, so we pitched our tents just a bit short of our goal, but far enough away that it dictated we would not be summiting the next day. PB would require a whole day of devotion.
About 21 km equivalents
Day 3. Almost a rest day: wading along New River Lagoon. 2.2 kms as the crow flies; 2.6 kms in reality, as measured by my gps. 1 hr 15 mins’ wading.

Precipitous Bluff PB seen from our approach at lagoon level

Whilst chatting about the previous day, it became clear that I had wasted an awful lot of time and energy trying to stabilise myself and prevent another fall due to general buffeting, lack of visibility of the bottom and the slimy, algae-coated stones somewhere down there in the murky depths. Andrew suggested he help stabilise me by holding an arm to see if that helped. The final part of the lagoon flew by, as now I just had to push water with sodden, lead-weighted boots, but didn’t have to bother about the rest. “Buddying” was definitely the go.
What luxury. A whole day in this magnificent rainforest. How utterly beautiful!!!!
We carefully chose our real estate for the night. Louise photographed. Andrew used washed-up timber and ship-dumped rope to construct an arm-chair that a later arrival, Matt, suggested could be a raft to get us all back up the lagoon. We visited and explored the cave, and rearranged seemingly random tapes to form a coherent route that would save time in the morning and evening on the morrow, thereby cutting 40 minutes for that section each way down to 10 the next day!

We missed the fun company of the first night, thinking by the time we had finished dinner that we were to have another night with just two of us. Then Rod and Matt appeared out of the water. Like Andrew and me, they had tried to summit PB from the other direction, been blown off the range, and were now trying from below. Soon thereafter, appeared an exhausted Raika and Andrew from New Zealand, who had come over PB from the Southern Ranges. I take my hat off to anyone who has managed to overcome all the obstacles of that route. We all joked about Bog Saddle, the scoparia and more. Now we were six, and we had a fun and sociable evening together.
Day 4. Precipitous Bluff: the beast itself. 7.22 horizontal kms + 11.67 vertical yields 18.9 km equivalents, each way. 38 km equivalents for the day.
4 hrs 08 up; 3 hrs 12 mins descent.

Cliffs of PB. Getting higher now (Day 4)

Just to be certain the four of us summitting that day got up nice and early to ensure the job got done. Andrew and I packed head torches just in case. I think the other two did too. We were absolutely determined to get it this time. Rod said the winds would pick up after lunch. I feared we would not be there by then and begged to be anchored down should I be in danger of being blasted off the top. I imagined myself snaking or crawling the whole way from emerging at the top to the summit, as I have had to do sometimes in the UK – in Scotland and the Lakes.

Ready to roll, off we set, so happy with the mere 10 minutes to the start of the whopping climb up the steep slope that we knew would take a long time. One hour from the tents, we had a break, and I was very disappointed at the amount we had climbed (a mere 250 ms). However, that split also involved quite a bit of horizontal distance as well. Once the slope became more vertical, our metre climbed per hour rate rapidly improved. In 2 hrs 23 mins steep climbing up the slope that I assume is made of limestone-based rock, we had reached the cliffs.

The undulating traverse along the base seemed interminable (43 mins, actually). Then came the longed-for actual climb up the chute between the dolerite columns from the base up over the top and down a bit to the sheltered saddle which forms High Camp. This took a mere 36 minutes. I climbed like an excited pussy cat, singing with joy as I went. I was so, so very happy to be there. Even whilst climbing, if you looked back over your shoulder, you got absolutely fantastic views both of mountains to the north, and beaches to the south. Oh boy what a feeling!!

I just could not contain my excitement in the final 16 minutes to the actual summit. I wanted to touch together, but just couldn’t hold myself back from scampering. I did make sure not to touch without Andrew.
We saw someone coming, and thought it was Rod. However, it was a lovely guy called Mark, who had come from Wylly Plateau. While Andrew chatted to his wife on the phone in a sheltered spot, Mark and I braved the now mounting winds, staring at all our visible mountain friends and at both our routes below, comparing notes. He, like me, had had his watch ripped off his wrist by the scoparia, and like us and everyone else we spoke to, had got disoriented in Bog Saddle. This is my name for a nameless dump of mud, but when I use it, absolutely nobody asks me what I am referring to, and all know exactly which spot I mean. The name needs the stamp of officialdom.

Andrew kindly sent my daughters a text to say I was safe while he still had the phone in service, and we then went down to the calmer high camp for lunch. Even there, my food was mildly swept away as I assembled it, and Andrew’s anorak briefly took flight.
As a result of the fact that the winds would only get worse, and we knew exactly how ferocious they could be up there, we made a hasty retreat, having enjoyed the spectator sport of watching the other two finishing off the climb while we ate, colourful ants moving across a green landscape.
The trip down was uneventful, and was speedier than the way up. The really steep part was exactly the same split as the trip up; the traverse was actually a bit slower; but the less severely steep lower slopes were a lot faster on the rebound. High fives were shared. How utterly amazing. I had done PB. What a happy day!!!
Day 5. PB base (New River Lagoon) to Prion Beach to Surprise Bay. 22.2 km equivalents. 7 hrs 02 mins’ walking and wading

Hen Island and Rocky Boat Inlet once back on the coast after Prion Beach

Sigh. Here we go again with the lagoon effort. My boots had almost dried out but I was about to turn them to lead again. Andrew kindly steadied me the whole way, so my muscles didn’t ache until right at the end (and not nearly as badly as on the way out), and we were heaps faster, but not as fast as Rod and Matt who disappeared out of sight after they had been able to go deep around the last creek, but I, being shorter, had required us to go inland and had then had trouble crossing one of the three grouped creeks. I thought we would never see them again. Sad.

Andrew leaves Snack Ck en route to Surprise Bay

Prion was just as horrifically rubbishy and unproviding in acceptable water as on the way in, so we gave it short shift and immediately set out (after wringing out socks and emptying boots of a few litres of water [me; Andrew wore crocs, but I can’t]) for the next camp site. This was theoretically Osmiridion Beach, but neither of us felt the slightest bit inclined to spend the afternoon swatting mosquitoes there, and we were both still full of walking, so pressed happily on to Surprise Bay, which I greatly fancied spending more time at. It had definitely been my favourite beach on the way in.

That was a good decision. After a delicious dinner, with Apricot Crumble for dessert kindly supplied as a treat by Andrew, he chatted to the next new acquaintance who had more than probably thought he would get the place to himself, Darren, while I went on to the beach and spent a happy hour or two photographing shapes and scenes as the golden sun sank its gradual way to the horizon and the shadows lengthened. I was so very sad not to have one of my good full-frame cameras with me, but this trip had been really tough, and I could not have coped with a heavy camera.

I couldn’t even cope with my “compromise Fuji XT-30”, which I am growing to know and enjoy on occasions when a middle ground is required. (See the photos in my blog on Sharlands Peak,
http://www.natureloverswalks.com/sharlands-peak-frenchmans-cap-2021/).

This trip, alas, was one for my Sony RX100, which is the lightest, shoots RAW and has full manual control, but the advantages end there. So much is lacking to my eyes used to the detail and light management that a full sensor allows. I am so upset that I couldn’t do with that tool all that I desired with the fabulous scenes unfolding before me. Such is life.

Day 6. Surprise Bay to Granite Beach to South Cape Rivulet, to Lion Rock to Cockle Creek. 35.43 km equivalents. 9 hours 03 mins’ walking (stumbling).
The day was fresh, the light appealing, the air warm but not hot as we embarked on the final day of our journey. Darren had set out ahead of us, but I was pretty sure we would see him further on. What I didn’t expect was to come across Matt and Rod at Granite Beach, quietly packing up their tent after our first hour. They had muttered about perhaps going down to Osmiridion. They must have flown after lunch. I must ask about what food they pack! Ha.

They wished us Happy New Year. I didn’t even know it was NY Day. Did the world out there still exist? Was covid still a problem? Had politicians made any sensible or humane decisions? Had every other Tasmanian now caught it? We were locked in a safe and beautiful bubble in the wilderness. There were indeed heaps of mainlanders, but nobody with covid could be dealing with the demands of this track, muddy, long obstacle course that it was, without sinking in a hole. We all felt perfectly safe with each other.

Rod set out with Andrew. I fiddled around a bit before getting my act together. Matt packed the last of his things. On the steep slope out of Granite, Matt flew past. I could see Andrew and Rod ahead, but was tired and could not catch them. I slowed myself down more by photographing some “white waratah” (Agastachys odorata: stupid common name, as it looks absolutely nothing like a red, normal waratah, Telopea truncata). Eventually I caught up to Andrew who had kindly stopped to make sure I was OK.

We left Daren, having spent a bit of the trail with him, and just caught the others as they were leaving South Cape Rivulet, presumably having had a break there. I went off to find the toilet, which I found but it was permanently locked from the inside. People who had needed it had deposited their bundle unburied, and the area absolutely stank with the smell of uncovered human faeces. I wanted to vomit. Meanwhile, I have never seen so many people in my life at a supposed wilderness campsite, and the plastic rubbish all over the place was as repugnant as ever. Ach. It felt like civilisation. We were supposed to be in the wilderness. Once more, we dashed out of this place, foregoing the promised 1 hour’s rest and swim that we had agreed upon.

Lion Rock beach – last view of the coast. Farewell fantastic walk

The next part was a blur. I had not had enough water at lunchtime, as the creeks that the map said we crossed were not actually crossed at all by the route on the ground (which I gpx’d). I needed water which was not available, sugar which needed water to go with it, and rest. I got an insufficient amount of all three until we arrived – me in pretty bad shape – at the beach near Lion Rock. Here we found fresh water, no ugly rubbish, and a place to dump the packs and rest. I slowly munched an apricot nut chocolate bar with several cups of water and began to pick up.
At the end of the beach we met four lovely people who took a look at us, correctly read the loads and the body language, and congratulated us on finishing. Later, one of them imitated my body language at that point, stumbling to and fro in a simian kind of pose. I laughed.
“Did you see me trying to get up those huge steps?” I asked. I knew I had looked like a dead sloth crawling out of thick mud. “Yes”, he said and imitated that, too, amidst more laughter.
Luckily by then the sweetness of the bar, the rest and the water were starting to kick in, so my posture began to resemble my own species a bit more, and off we set for the final stint of our epic. What a happy, happy trip. Not just – or even because – I had climbed my mountain (although that helped), but in terms of beauty and sociability with the fun people we met along the way, I felt completely happy with every aspect of the trip.

December 20, 2021

Sharlands Peak, Frenchmans Cap 2021

Here we were at another saddle on our supposed climb of Sharlands Peak. It was another dead end with a drop to certain death if we took another step, or peeped over the abyss too enthusiastically. I took another photo to match the mounting collection of “failure saddles”, sighed a meaningful sigh, and withdrew. Again. How many saddles were left for us to try?

Nicoles Needles, a lower part of the Sharlands Peak tower group, nearest Barrons Pass

The book had merely said to head east to a saddle that had mild exposure. There had been something about a ridge offering dramatic views, as well. Did the writer not remember there are myriad tiny saddles up there? Or that east covers a multitude of general possibilities ranging over a possible eighty-nine degrees? We kept gazing over edges that dropped to eternity below and asked each other: “Does this constitute ‘mildly exposed'”? “Would you call this view ‘dramatic’?”

All the views were dramatic. Every saddle had a certain degree of exposure. How nauseous did you need to feel before you could pronounce: “This must be the one; I can identify it by my stomach.”

We would be on a saddle, looking up a knife-edged ridge that brooked no error: one rock falling out of the collection, one slip and the climber was gone. You couldn’t see what lay beyond the next dodgy climb. Was this where we were supposed to go? There was no point in risking it if it was yet another dead end, but we couldn’t see if there was any use trying from where we were. One of us would climb the next bit and report back on the likelihood of this being the way … or maybe offering A way, even if not THE one.

Now that it is all over, this nervy trial and error seems rather fun, but at the time, my nausea level was mounting, especially when it was my daughter’s turn to try out first and I could see my beloved offspring straining her way up rock that looked too loose for my comfort. She is very experienced and capable, so it seemed terribly condescending to call out: “Be careful. Test each rock hugely before you commit to it.” But love made me want to yell precisely that.

Another saddle, another needle but not the summit. Sigh.

We found ourselves by and by at the top of the landslide. The book had said not to go via the landslide, but it meant not to climb that way from below, and implied the real danger was lower than we were. Should we keep trying here?
I was beginning to give up, I have to confess. I announced that I had just lost interest in this Abel, and thus in the idea of getting all Abels. I was ignored. Mercifully. We tried yet another tack. My turn to go first. From this knob, I could see a saddle that surely led to the top, and I thought I could make out a possible route that would find us at that saddle. Kirsten came up to get the view and agreed. Here we go again. This was not the first time this had been said in our tour of these maze-needles. We tried on rough contour. Failed again. Dropped again but not too far and bingo. We could see a possibility of gaining the top.

Another push up to a higher level, but we are not where we need to be. Great views, though.

Yet, even as we climbed this, we had to tack and back a bit in order to get a route that would take us up and not on the flight of our lives. Now that we have successfully done it, it all seems terribly easy. Uncertainty about whether what we were doing was yet another false manoeuvre was part of what was mentally trying. But, I have to say, the whole uncertainty ultimately engendered far more excitement at success than if we had known all along that we would get there. It was fun having to work it out and do it for ourselves. Too much of our wilderness is being dumbed down. “Wild” and “dumbed down” are actually mutually exclusive, in that the word “wild” has as its antonym “tame”. Could someone please explain that to our government?

Pano. At last we have found the summit needle.

There was the summit stone. I couldn’t care at all about who touches first, but Kirsten wanted us to touch together. It’s a cute ceremony. We did it. I snooped around the back, and called out that I’d found a way of actually getting on top of it. (It was too high at the first point for either of us to scale it.)

With a grunt and an accelerated effort, I gained enough height to then haul myself to be on top. Whoah, it was windy up here, only 2.3 or so metres higher. Kirsten of course, quickly followed. There was not room for a third person up there, but we were only a duo, so that hardly mattered. We briefly enjoyed the view, and descended extremely quickly now that we knew the best route. Our little welcoming tent far below signalled our new goal.

How lovely to reach our tent at last. It had been a long day. We had driven in, walked past the Lake Vera hut (where Kirsten had a swim en passant), climbed Barron Pass in what felt like oppressive heat, enjoyed the view up there, and then gone along to curve around to the valley behind our desired peak. We were filled with joy as we descended. There we were in a a quiet valley, surrounded by astonishing majesty and soothing silence. THIS was wilderness. This was what we’d come for.

Earlier, despite the already very long day, we had made the call to climb this peak today in case the bad weather came in early. Now we were back at our tiny red haven, we couldn’t have been happier. The evening was mild enough to cook and eat outside and stare at the changing light as we ate our delicious (only in the wilderness) cauliflower and pea dahl – the normal rehydrated, formerly dehydrated fare.

Sharlands was a kind of bonus, brought about by the expected bad weather which had been forecast for the next two days. We had changed plans and now got in a peak while the weather held. Now, if it turned totally sour, at least we had something to show for our efforts. Kirsten had kindly taken a day off work to be with me and climb a mountain together. It was great that her generosity was not in vain.

The next morning, it was not yet raining, and there had only been a couple of light showers during the night, so we decided to head off in the direction of Frenchmans Cap, and maybe climb it, maybe not. The world was our oyster. We’d respond to how we felt.

Of course, we ultimately felt like climbing, even though the weather started to close in (and we had to allow a great deal of time for photography of flowers and views, and for Kirsten to enjoy a swim in Lake Tahune). We were under no pressure, time or otherwise.

We had climbed it together (with Bruce) when Kirsten was a student, so this was a revisit, and in fact, I have now climbed it five times. Familiarity has not bred contempt. This is one heck of a beautiful mountain, and the climb is pure fun – especially on this day, with wildflowers everywhere, with high drama and an approaching storm and with a monster feeling of satisfaction that we had Sharlands Peak on our list of climbed mountains. Three Abels to go. Weeee.

We celebrated at the end of our walk out next day with a ‘works hamburger’ at the Hungry Wombat. After three days of bush fare, I felt unaccustomed to so much real food all in one go, and was uncomfortably full as we continued on our way. It’s Christmas. We boomed out the Messiah as we drove back to Hobart, singing along together with gusto as we headed east.

Blandfordia punicea for some Christmas cheer on the way out.

December 10, 2021December 20, 2021

Snowy South 2021

It was my daughter’s birthday, and a friend had suggested she climb the Abel Mt Snowy South on this momentous occasion. An invitation was extended to Gussy and me, and so it transpired that six of us set out for Snowy South on World Mountain Day.

Abby elected to stay at home and play with her father, and, considering the fact that Snowy South is quite demanding, this was a good move, even if pretty sad for Keith, who would normally have loved to join in. It probably would have been even sadder, however, to carry a reluctant and possibly complaining 15 kg daughter on a walk advertised as lasting six hours, if that’s how things worked out. No one wants her to hate bushwalking / mountain climbing, and as a result, all her walks are entirely voluntary.

We started quite late, and then celebrated with excellent pastries in Ranelagh before we began our pleasant way through the lush green rainforest, up to our first break at Lake Skinner, after 1 hour 15 mins walking.

After more climbing, I announced I was very hungry. I know we had had a late morning tea, but I am an animal that constantly needs feeding, so I spotted a little tarn and requested that we at least had lunch number one there. It was 2.10 pm after all – waaaay past my lunch time.

This water was in a flat section before the last climb, which proved to be rather good fun. This is not a mountain you stroll up. Young Gus is only in fourth class, and some of the hauls to the next level required quite an effort from him. I could hear him grunting on several occasions. At his height (he is very tall for his age, but still lacks the reach of an adult, especially his orangutang nana), he has to be quite creative about how he can enable the next level, as often the route we take is not one that’s suitable for him. The day before, he had raced the individual event of the Primary Inter-Schools’ Triathlon in the morning, and in the afternoon had raced the run leg for his relay team in the same event. In addition, he had been in his primary school’s mountain bike race the day before that. He did well in all three races. I was impressed that he even wanted to come, let alone cope as well as he was now doing, and do it all with such enthusiasm.

Five of us (including him) reached the summit, where we discovered it was freezing cold that high in the sky, so descended without eating. Once more, I was starving in the flat bit under all the rocks, so pleaded for lunch number two, it now being something near 4 pm, or was it 4.30? Either way, Gussy and I needed food! We sat together by the tarn, finishing off our salad rolls.

On the way home, a plaintive voice sounded from the back of the car: “If I fall asleep on the way home, will daddy carry me into bed?” Poor darling. He didn’t fall asleep, but on arrival home, he cleaned his teeth and tumbled straight into bed without dinner. When I later added up the distance and height factors of the day’s effort, he had covered twenty kilometre equivalents in a time of just under six hours. Next morning at breakfast, he piled six Weetbix into his bowl, before he even thought about the next course.

August 10, 2021June 27, 2022

Mt Field NP. Winter holiday

Not everybody knows, but if you don’t mind unheated huts with no pampering, Mt Field has Government huts that can be hired by families (or other groups) for a very reasonable sum. Our family made a three-day booking for the school holidays just gone by. To say it was cold is an interesting and inadequate summary, but not something that would ruin a holiday: in fact, it probably made it more memorable and enjoyable.

When you wake up to this, you decide you weren’t so cold after all. Beauty is exhilarating.

It didn’t help that we arrived in the dark, a few hours after work, and were not particularly successful in getting the fire going strongly at that hour. I can do “being cold” in my tent, as I warm up the space quickly enough, especially if I have jut been exercising, but a hut with “big space” and no preceding exercise is different. Luckily we were prepared with blankets as well as sleeping bags.

I was cold enough during the night to think that this holiday was not such a good idea and maybe I had urgent business at home that I had forgotten about, but when I saw the beautiful white frost out the window on awakening, I decided this was worth a little discomfort, and I couldn’t remember the urgent business.

Wandering along Broad River Flats in shorts

The children were also excited by all the ice, and had fun trying to walk on tarns and seeing if they would fall in. I tried to go for a training run, and did get as far as Lake Dobson, but once I’d had a free skating run on an icy slope there, I decided I wouldn’t go any further in that direction. I got in my exercise down a bit lower on the Lady Barron Falls track instead.

That afternoon, after games in the now-warm hut, my daughter and l set out for the snow on Tarn Shelf. It was very slippery and icy, but we took care, and it was superbly beautiful.

The next day was even colder, (minus 5 in the valley, so, less where we were), and the tarns were even more alluring. That day the children were also keen to go up high and have a snow fight and a general play, so we all climbed up and had lunch in the snow.

Snow fights don’t amuse me, so I climbed higher, onto the Mawson shelf to check out things there, and then dropped back down to join the others at the Lake Seal Lookout, for round X of the snow war. Eventually the children were prepared to move on further, to the hut just past the Rodway Range intersection in the track. Funnily, we bumped into another family from the children’s primary school, also exploring the snow up there. I am so pleased to have grandchildren who are prepared to get out into the environment and enjoy what it has to offer rather than sitting inside staring at and swiping screens all day.

On the final day, Gussy, his dad and I climbed Mt Field East, which had very thick icicles on all the rock sections. Gussy is 9 and that is his ninth Abel. There is something quite neat about that. The days when I had to slow down and wait for Gus are now behind us. These days, he has a very tidy pace indeed, and was faster than I was over the ice cubes. I preferred four points of contact while he was content to dance on ice – a much faster way to move.

I was the one holding us up. Oh weh.