Abel | Natureloverswalks

December 11, 2022December 11, 2022

Jerusalem 2022

I am not quite sure why I called this blog ‘Jerusalem’ (referring to Mt Jerusalem, which we did indeed climb): A Wander in the Walls would have been more appropriate. Perhaps the vagueness of that latter title, which might have matched the imprecision of our meanderings, might have been a little too lacking in substance for readers to find anything to grasp.

I hate pinning myself down and performing like a puppet to a timetable or overly defined schedule: I like to respond to weather, my mood and whatever the circumstances are that meet me in the wilderness. Luckily my friend Margie is totally comfortable with my slippery programmes. The two of us would go to the Walls, probably but not definitely sticking to the NE area, and climbing maybe this and that, observing lakes and pools both named and unnamed. We would be off track for a goodly part of the exercise. There were a few things I hoped to climb and see, but my heart was set on none of them, and with snow forecast for our second day, we weren’t really sure at all how things would play out. The only thing I knew for certain was that I wanted to sleep on top of mountains every night. We hadn’t even pinned ourselves down to a specific route for the way in. We would park and decide in the carpark.

Sunset to Mt Ossa, Pelion West and lots more.

Somehow or other, with that seeming indecision, we nonetheless wasted no time vacillating and with almost no discussion, came to agreement on our plan, whilst at the same time always leaving it open. Up we went.
I guess if we’d met some growly ranger early on who wanted to herd us like cattle into her enclosure, we might have changed tack, but we didn’t, so that left us open to plan A. Whilst in the early stages we met a few interstate walkers who asked us our destination, when we said we were heading to the NE of the park and were going to sleep on a mountain or two, they seemed to think that was cool.

Sunset view to Mt Ossa, Pelion West and more

And thus we wandered, over this named and that unnamed lump, exploring tarns lined with pencil pines, and seeing the views from quite a few high points. Eventually we chose our real estate for the night, which was as near to the summit of our lump as we could get within reason – reason dictating that we should shelter a bit from the wind that was getting quite strong by now, and promising to be more fearsome as night advanced. We found a beautiful hollow which was not quite out of the wind, but didn’t bear the full brunt.

Sunrise. How can life be this good? Epacris serpyllifolia

Meanwhile, it had lovely views and a tarn big enough to use its water for drinking. I wasn’t sure if I could light my stove for dinner, the wind was now so strong, but I managed.

One of many tarns to the south of Mt Jerusalem

All through the late afternoon, we kept a close watch on the advancing heavy clouds, willing them not to block the horizon at sunset. They were dark and menacing, but were still allowing room for the sun to peep through underneath. Trouble was, there were still a few hours to go until sunset, so a lot of mental coercion of the elements was required.

It was by now very cold indeed, so we each retired into our respective tent to wait for the possibility of sunset, and hopefully to warm up whilst we did so. They were close enough for us to chat across the tent space.

Sunset was as the pictures portray: totally magnificent. I always forget I am cold when excited by beauty, so happily shot for the duration of the golden light. Snow was forecast for the next day. Would we wake up to a white world, or would that come later? My tent flapped wildly all night, but no snow fell, and the morning brought calmer conditions and unexpected sunshine. Oh well. Snow would come later then. Let’s climb Mt Jerusalem. So we did.

Walls of Jerusalem, just how I like them

The last time I climbed Mt Jerusalem, I had giardia, and am not even sure how I managed to climb. I wasn’t actually vomiting on that day, but was gestating the illness, and had no energy or spark. I took no photos. This time I floated on the wave of beauty, and was able to enjoy all the sights. On the southern side of the broad higher area not far from the summit, there are countless tarns, so we used our afternoon well, exploring a few of them and spying on the scoparia. By mid afternoon the sunny day had ceded to wind, dark clouds and snow. We scurried to our mountain to retreat into tents and try to warm up. The tent flaps banged all night, no matter how tightly I adjusted the guys.

By “sunrise” we woke to a pure white world full of wonder. We both took photos from our tents, but then, deciding we were being just a bit lazy, got out and did the job properly.

Underway in the Walls of Jerusalem; summer please note.

I seemed particularly slow at packing up, but there were no pressing appointments. We both agreed to retreat back to the car at this stage rather than climb another mountain, but there was no rush, and the snow was gorgeous, so we unhurriedly got our gear together and snow-bashed our way down the mountain, along the valley, over a stream and then down through the forest of twigs and branches supporting loads of white powder, to the cars below. It was a fabulous trip, and now Mt Jerusalem joins the list of mountains that I have climbed more than once.

July 15, 2022

Arthur 2022

Although I live on the opposite side of the river to Mt Arthur, and look out at it rather than out from it, there is another sense in which I feel I almost live on this mountain, I snoop around its slopes so often. Some people who don’t know me call me a peak bagger, but actually, I only rarely touch the summit of this mountain, and if ticking lists and gaining points were my object, then I would go off and do that instead of going up Arthur yet again.

For me, what is important is not ticking a box, but rather the journey to my destination, and the enjoyment of the delights along the way. On Arthur, I love the forest with its cloak of moss and colourful fungi on the lower slopes. Up higher, there are some rocks to clamour over, some scoparia to avoid and, sure, a summit cairn of gigantic proportions to touch. You climb 630 ms in 4.25 kms, which is quite steep, and another reason I enjoy it. The return journey plus the height yields 14.8 km equivalents, which is yet another reason to enjoy it: a good amount of exercise with very little driving if you live in Launceston..

Perhaps oddly, Sunday was only the third time I have bothered to touch the summit cairn of this mountain that I lie in bed of a morning and watch at sunrise, and that I see in my peripheral vision of an evening as I wander my garden at sunset, collecting the last of my wood or pulling the final handful of onion weed, admiring the flowers in evening light and the river going pearly, or taking the goats a branch or two to please them.

Sunday was a special day, as my daughter and Gussy were coming for the weekend, and we were going to climb Mt Arthur. Gus’s arm is only just out of plaster, so we would need to be careful. Also, he has lost some fitness with eight weeks of not playing his normal sport. It will take him a while to catch up to where he was two months ago.

Clitocybe clitocyboides = Singerocybe clitocyboides Mt Arthur

My daughter has been utterly hectic at work, so was not in the mood for a racing start, choosing to sip tea by the fire at a leisurely pace before we set out. I had earlier decided not to pack lunch, but just to have snacks on the summit, and lunch itself at The Bean Barrow in Lilydale, which I love.

At last we were ready to head up the mountain. We donned our daypacks. Hm. Where is my camera bag? OH NO. Not here. The substitute Fuji, kept in the car for emergencies? Gone. The car had been repaired recently, and I had emptied it out. Oh well. Resort to iPhone. Na. It was in the camera bag that had been left behind. So very sad. Oh well. We would at least take a summit shot with Kirsten’s phone. (Ahem Her battery died somewhere on the way up, so we had no phone at all, but we weren’t to know that yet.)

The absence of a camera did not detract from our enjoyment of a good climb, and no doubt made us faster. We had two stops for water for Gus on the way up, and a change of clothes once we emerged out of the protection of the forest into the icy wind on top. It was not going to be a day for hanging around the summit area, with or without a camera. We were running late for our lunch booking, however, but there was nothing we could do about it to let the cafe know. (So, if I had no camera, why are you getting photos? These are a combo of others I have taken on this mountain where I nearly live, and I also went back today to take some more to make the blog authentic 🙂 ) .

The other two belted down the mountain once we had cleared the rocks, with me trotting behind. It was a fun workout. Once back at the car, we connected Kirsten’s phone to some energy and called The Bean Barrow. Yes; they were still open; yes, they would forgive us for running late. Nonetheless, we had no time to lose, as they close at 3, and it was after half past two. Gussy’s meal had his eyes rolling in ecstasy; Kirsten and I made little noises of appreciation as we ate. Not much conversation went on.

I was worried about them driving back to Hobart with full stomachs, especially as we had all had a very disturbed night thanks to the long and victorious match of the Matties in the Wimbledon men’s doubles final. I have had two car accidents following Wimbledon in my life, so was anxious, but they got home safely.

For my part, I just had to hang around home, allowing the happiness of the climb to resonate while I did my evening tasks. One thing I sure realised was: no matter how much I enjoy forests and streams, waterfalls and fungi, there is just nothing like being in the infinite space at the top of a mountain with people you love and sharing the thrill of a climb with them.

Mt Arthur walking track route (which begins at the end of Mountain Road).

June 27, 2022June 27, 2022

Albert: an unplanned adventure

By the time I pulled into the ‘space’ for cars below Mt Albert I was already seriously questioning the sanity of climbing the mountain this late. It had been a ridiculously slow trip, not helped in the slightest by my decision to indulge in cake and coffee in Lilydale, … but the German apple cake from The Bean Barrow is so good, and they are only open a few days a week. How can you go past without having some? No idea. I always stop.
It was 4.10 and I wasn’t yet in my bushwalking clothes (that would push it to nearer 4.25 before I was ready to get going). Ah well. Let’s get out of the car and go to the toilet and then think about whether there was any point in climbing this late.

OH NO!!!!! My back left tyre was flatter than flat. I must have had a blow out. Whoah. How can that happen on a road that is not in bad condition? OK. Now I was in almost panic mode. All of a sudden I had no choice in whether or not I would climb this mountain. I had to climb it in order to get phone reception to call the RACT to help me change the tyre. Sorry folks, but tyres feel like they weigh almost as much as I do so that I can’t even pull them out of the boot, let alone place them in position on the axel. Also, even when jumping on the lever to undo the screws, I do not exert enough force to budge the fulcrum to move the screws to undo them. I needed help and urgently. It would go well below freezing overnight, and my dog was locked outside back at home.
First job: put on walking clothes. I was still in my running gear from earlier in the day, and already the temperature was nearing zero. The air had a stinging nip to it.
Stuff grabbed, off I set. Now 4.22, on one of the shortest days of the year, and at this time of year, Tassie’s beautiful long twilights do not take place. Darkness very quickly follows sunset. I had to hurry. I remembered Albert as being a quick climb. I hoped my memory was good. First memory fault: almost as soon as I began the walk, I entered a huge patch of ferns where the fronds met each other across the pad that presumably lay beneath. That was going to be impossible to detect in the dark that would accompany my return. Problem for later. On I pressed. I needed help and that meant I needed to be on top of this mountain.
There were pink tapes to guide a bit but they would also be invisible once darkness set in. No one had done work on maintenance in this area for a long time. Of course there were fallen trees to climb over. Would I find them in the dark? Who knew? Not I. On I went. Up up, climbing as quickly as I could.
Then there were confusing bits where even in this light I had to scout around for the best route. What on earth would I do on the way back? Maybe it would be easier when I couldn’t see. Ha.

Albert summit taken back in 2013. I was hoping to arrive early enough to take 2022 photos, but that didn’t happen.

Then I came to a bit that really scared me. There had been small sections where the rocks were steep and slippery, but this was different. The rock was very wet, had little grip, no footholds and only the most meagre of twiglets for my hands to grab on the right hand side; nothing further over on the left. I took this bit really slowly. Below me was a three or four metre drop onto jagged rocks: not enough to kill me unless I fell very badly, but enough to break a bone if I found myself travelling downwards out of control, and if I slipped or the twiglets broke, that would be my fate. I would not do this bit on the way back. Somehow I’d have to find a way around it.
Up up. At last I had topped out enough to try for phone reception. Hallelujah. There was a bar. Would it be enough? I googled RACT roadside assistance, and yes, google worked. Well, that is, google fed me with stuff, but the stuff was just an endless series of adds for how I could buy assistance … or insurance if I would prefer. I scrolled and scrolled, but never got a phone number. I tried out my memory. I was obviously close, as I got NRMA, the NSW equivalent. They put me through the endless series of loops and hoops that I just didn’t have time for in this emergency. The sky was a pretty red; the sun was now below the horizon. I had very little light left already to fund my return journey, and I couldn’t afford the luxury of dealing with stupid computer systems. I needed a human. I phoned my daughter, usually busy and more than often nowhere near her phone. Luck was there. She answered. Hoorah. I told her my situation as briefly as possible and asked her to find the number of RACT and get them to me as quickly as possible. I needed to start down the mountain while the going was good.
She must have been very successful, as the RACT called me whilst I was still in range. The very nice girl, however, didn’t seem to understand the word “emergency” and wanted to know the car number (totally irrelevant; I was the only fool in my location), whether the car was automatic or manual and other questions that came across to me as a terrible waste of time in what was becoming a crisis. The climbing was too tricky to do with one hand instead of two, so I was losing precious light, a commodity I could not regain. At last I got my urgency through to her, and she let me keep climbing down.
I had to get past the really dangerous bit. I stared at it. Nope, I just couldn’t do, not even with hardly any light so that many of the dangers were no longer visible (and thus less confronting). I decided to bushbash off to the side rather than risk a fall.
Down lower and back on track, every time I lost it and later refound it by accident, I marvelled that I had done so, and gave thanks. Being on the pad was going to be more efficient than bashing, and I would be less likely to hit something and hurt myself if I were on the pad.
And thus it was that with my admix of bashing and somehow remaining on the pad, losing and then finding a more traversed section of land than otherwise, the ribbon of light that was the final section of my journey – made so by the fact that it was under 10 cms or so of water – came into view.
I was back at the car, and now just had to wait another hour and a half to be rescued. At this stage, I became very glad I had indulged at Lilydale. I pulled the final third of my German apple cake from the serviette in which I’d wrapped it, and ate it slowly, savouring the juicy taste while I watched the Milky Way above take a more defined shape as light vanished from the night sky. The temperature dropped some more.
When my children were aged 1 and 3, we used to bushwalk with dear friends from Armidale every weekend, and on these walks we never ever made it back to the car in the light. It always added to the sense of adventure. I wonder if the children have any memories of those grand days of feeling our way through the bush in the dark, laughing our way through the wilderness.
Sorry for the lack of usual photos dear Reader (and for the very old photo used as the “featured image”. I’ll renew it as soon as I can, which will no doubt be a few weeks). As you can tell from the story, I was kind of too busy to think about such things. I will have to visit Albert yet again to take some more photos. However, I have no wish to ever climb down it in the dark again – or, not solo and in mid winter. I do love an adventure, but there are limits.
The RACT guy said: “You went up THERE at sunset?”
“I had to, to get reception. ”
“I took my teenage son up there and he came home with his knee dashed to pieces. I took another group up there and they never made it. There is a reason the track notes say it’s very dangerous.”
Yeah. I get it.

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.

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.