Bushwalks and hikes in Tasmania and the world
Mt King William II and Slatters Peak: my first extended bushwalk without my husband to share the load.
We set out. There would be no track to follow them on should I be too slow – we were heading straight into the bush – so it was keep up or die. I kept up, so busy concentrating on that very task that I didn’t even have time to wonder if my pack was too heavy. I was relieved that my friend S and a new girl, M, were both a bit slower than I was. If I got dropped, they would too, so at least I’d have company. I’d heard our coordinator talking about M on the way: “If she can’t keep up, we’ll just dump her at Fisherman’s Camp and pick her up in three days.” That put great fear into me. My shoelace came undone, but I didn’t dare stop to do it up. To stop was to be left in the middle of nowhere and perish.
At Fisherman’s Camp I relaxed a tiny bit. I made sure I was always in the first three (of nine) and, concentrating on that job kept all other pack pains and fears away. I raced through the thick button grass, righting myself with celerity if I fell in a mud hole, fearful of failure.
There was a certain degree of inconsistency, as sometimes we would have random stops when the leader felt like it, and he would chat in the middle of nowhere, and M and I would freeze while he talked. We both started to get hypothermic. She – and the others, too – decided I was really going under. (They were right). So, who helped me? The experienced people? No. M. She gave me her padded synthetic coat, which was warm when wet, and it made the world of difference, but I was being saved at the expense of the one person in the expedition who could least afford to give me something. With her coat I could keep up and keep the top half of my body warm, even though the bottom half was still frozen solid. My feet were quite numb, which made falling a distinct possibility.
Wylds Craig Feb 2012. My second ever off track mountain.
The day we chose to climb this mountain, it was hot – especially as we set out straight after lunch, but once we’d entered the lush coolness of the rainforest, the canopy and moisture kept us comfortable. I climbed alone with my husband who has Parkinson’s disease, as we were too scared to climb with a group in case he held people up. As it turned out, he climbed brilliantly, and we need not have bothered – but we didn’t know that before he did it. Later, people said we were crazy to climb in that heat, but really, we didn’t notice. It seemed to us that very soon after our departure we were crossing Goodwins Moore, the last section before the summit and our camping site.
The only drawback to the site we’d chosen, and a point of mild concern, was that all the tarns had completely dried out in the late summer conditions of lots of sun, no rain and drying winds. We had absolutely no liquid: the last water we’d crossed was 50 mins ago. This would probably only be 25 or so on the way down, and 35-40 on the way back up as I wouldn’t be carrying my pack, but it would be a lot better if we could find a little tarn that hadn’t dried out. Hoorah. From our eyrie at the top we could see the sparkling glow of a tarn that was possibly only about ten minutes from our tent. Wonderful. I’d visit that when we got back down. It was the only visible water on the whole mountain.
When we got back to the tent, I left B to relax and took as many containers as I could to fill them. The water was cool and clear, and I enjoyed washing myself down with its soothing moisture as well as drinking from its pure freshness. There was plenty of water there for everyone.
For the rest of the hours while we waited for the others, we lay in the soft grass outside our tent and read. How relaxing. Each time I was due to turn a page, I would survey the glory of the scene before me before continuing.
Next morning there was a fiery orange glow to the east with everything else a pitch-black silhouette as I emerged from the tent. We had set alarms to enable us to climb again and watch sunrise from the top before dropping to the tents for breakfast.
I took too long over breakfast, lingering in a relaxed dream over my porridge, coffee and biscuits. Before I knew it, the others were ready, tents down, packs on, but we had neither depitched nor packed. I did the fastest tent dropping job imaginable, threw B’s pack together, sent him off with the others, and began a more careful pack of what remained. I’d give chase as soon as I could. I sighed with relief as I saw from above that he’d caught them from behind, and concentrated on decamping as quickly as I could. I’d caught them before the first break.
We descended and chatted, enjoyed the views and ate the goodies that people had brought to share. It was hot, so once we’d reached the car, the suggestion of a swim in the Florentine River was most welcome. The water was freezing – way too cold for me – but it was fun getting wet anyway, and enjoying the last of the rainforest before it was time to go back via the best pie shop ever at Hamilton.
Mt Picton, Feb 13, 2012. The first mountain in my peak bagging “career”.
Of course, I didn’t know what peak bagging was at this stage, but this was the first mountain where I consulted the Abels book and steered us up a mountain that didn’t have a track. Much, much later, I would begin ‘collecting’ them. At this stage, I ticked this mountain in the back index: an act that led me down a path on which I wanted a dirty page full of ticks.
I had decided I wanted to join a walking club so as to get to know likeminded people, but, having a husband who has Parkinson’s disease, I was a bit scared about making this move. Perhaps he would be far too slow and clumsy for a bunch of experts. Maybe I, too, had lost too much fitness to belong in such a group. I phoned the leader and suggested that Bruce and I arrive and climb early, so he couldn’t slow anyone down, and that we’d meet them all at the top of the mountain.
I needn’t have worried, but it was good to be sure. I don’t like putting others out. However, Bruce made it up the quite difficult mountain without disgracing himself or imposing on the good nature or patience of the others. In fact, given the description of the track, and the characteristics of the terrain, his first hour and a half had been exceptional. The ground had been slippery and very steep, muddy in places. Some sections were so steep that there were ropes in place, and the obstacles were many: the “path” was strewn with fallen logs, which were decked in a thick coating of moss and lichen and which had to be climbed over or under or along – each method containing difficulties when carrying a pack, and even more problems when one has Parkinson’s. The final half hour – just pushing through bauera scrub – was easy for me, but Bruce found it challenging, as he couldn’t see the ground, so lost confidence. We pitched our tent and enjoyed the scenery, and at some stage later, the others arrived, just as we were ready to do the final leg to the summit. We arranged to meet on the very top.
I had never thought it would be at all possible for Bruce to reach the summit trig, and was shocked when he looked up and said he could do it. We ran into trouble near the very top, when the huge boulders formed what seemed like a maze that couldn’t be solved from the inside. In fact, I was making plans about where best to spend the night (there were some rocky caves) as I could get him neither up nor down and the mist was closing in rapidly, when we heard the voices of the others in our party who were now climbing behind us. Encouraged by the fact that hope lay in joining up with them, Bruce found energy and expertise from somewhere, and got over the impasse to reach the base of the final, doable climb. It was fun sitting up the top with club members, chatting, sharing chocolate and watching the mist swirling around the rocky forms surrounding us. We descended as a group, arriving back at base in time to cook a leisurely meal while the sky turned pink, the mountains purple, and the tarns took on an incandescent light in the foreground.
Summit view
It was a cold, dark night following this beautiful sunset. I had hoped that Picton would be a shapely dark presence – like a black hole – in a star-studded silvery sky, but there was too much mist for that. Even so, just being up there surrounded by tiny tarns with the summit so close and the knowledge of the endless ridgelines of other mountains beyond imbued the whole night sky with magic. There is a special feeling created by sleeping up high in one’s tent with friends in their tents nearby. I drifted off into a happy sleep, well content with the day.
We had enjoyed being with the club, but Bruce was very, very slow on the way down, and we were sure we’d never be allowed on any future walks, which we both agreed was a pity. The forest had been superbly magnificent, and it had been fun to share our experience in the bush with others who loved it too. We both felt as if we’ve had a several-week-long holiday, and not just a weekend away.
Driving home I was dangerously exhausted. However, thanks to stops for food in Geevestown and Campbelltown, and a snooze while Bruce bought out a roadside fruit stall, making a life-long friend of the fruiterer (who even gave us a present of a CD he’d made as a parting gift), I made it safely through. We played our new tape, its songs being so lyrical that we sang along with it while I drove. The music remained a happy reminder of a trip that we both now treasure, despite its difficulties.
For a gpx route, see my next post on Picton (2017). I didn’t own a gps for my first couple of years of this new game, but relied on good old map and compass.
Walled Mountain, silhouetted Lake Ophion.
Walled mountain, Lake Ophion next morning.
The Acropolis from our early morning walk to Lake Elyssia from our campspot at Ophion.
Mt Geryon from Lake Elyssia, pre-breakfast stroll.
Mt Gould and Lake Cyane.
Lake Marion, night 2
