Tag: bushwalk

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Ida 2014 Nov

Mt Ida 2014 Nov


Mt Ida is possibly the scariest of the Abels I have climbed. I took photos at the top so that my family could see what I saw just before I died. As it turned out, coming down was very easy compared to going up, but I wasn’t to know that in advance. Because I thought I had other – better – things to do in my final moments on this earth than watch midday glare from a lesser-known peak, I didn’t fully appreciate the view. Luckily I took quite a few photos.
For the full context of this mountain, please see the link:
http://www.natureloverswalks.com/travellers-range…ter-spurling-ida/

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Tyndall 2014 Nov

Climbing
I have a suggestion for you, my reader: If you would like to experience the Tyndall Ranges in fairly desperate conditions, then just give me a ring. My record is unblemished. You’ll be assured of a good adventure and atmospheric photos – and, most important of all, of fairly disastrous weather.

Cresting the top: Tyndall.
The first time I went, the waterfalls were flowing uphill; the gale blew pack covers off and made zipping up coats impossible; the tops were knee deep in water. Dying from hypothermia was on the programme, but omitted this time. The second attempt, I scored a blizzard and summited solo in a snow squall with only my gps to confirm I’d reached the black dot. On the way out, all features were obliterated, not only by the deep fog of the previous day, but also by a blanket of fresh snow hiding all underneath it. The gps said where a track should be. The ground didn’t. Dying of hypothermia was on the programme, but was again postponed. This last time, I made another attempt at this interesting way to terminate my life, but failed yet again. Here I am, the cat who comes back (so far). Let me tell you this third variation on a theme.

Molly on top

We had been scheduled for a while to do a walk this weekend in the south-west, but when I looked at the horrific forecast for Saturday (a great deal of rain), I changed plans: Let’s go to the Tyndalls. We can use the track heading upwards in any weather and save cross-country navigation and any bush bashing that may occur for the sunnier Sunday. Deal.

Salome explores a different section

The car trip there was painfully slow. There are monstrous sections of 40 kph speed limit on the B18 heading south. It took five hours to get there! I parked, eyed the dark veil approaching, obviously laden with rain, and was impatient to get our climb done before it dumped on us. It was already eleven, and I was cross at the delays. Our pace was good – Molly and Salome are nice and fit – and we were at the top, photos taken, tents pitched and eating lunch before the storm broke. We sheltered in our timely-erected havens (on the summit) waiting for it to finish. It wasn’t as bad as I had expected.

I love it up here to bits. It’ s so nice to see the view!!
By 2.30, things seemed to have cleared enough for us to decide to take on Geikie that afternoon rather than waiting for the morrow. We packed the normal emergency equipment and set out, hopeful. We made fabulous time early on, and Tyndall seemed to be a good distance behind us, Geikie getting nice and close, as it began to rain at the far side of a tarn past Lake Tyndall, down in a basin between the two mountains. Mist began to envelop us. Unfazed, we journeyed on, happy with what the watch and our eyes said about progress.

Tenting on top. Geikie in the background.
Somewhat wetter, and definitely in a space defined by the very near environs (maybe about 10 metres visibility at this stage), we decided to have a check on the gps, as we had lost all sense of where our goal might now be, and how near we were to it. I was very disappointed to see the results: having blitzed the first bit, this next section, going up and down over mini-spurs and sometimes diverting to avoid cliff lines or backtracking to get around obstacles, had been slow. We were only maybe two thirds of the way there, and we had used up one and a half hours. I did my maths. It was still possible, however. A second source of disappointment was the realisation that my gps had not tracked a single step of our journey. The screen must have been bumped, turning the tracker off. Now I’d have to navigate my way on the return journey, whereas I’d hoped just to retrace our steps. On we continued, mist thickening up, rain getting heavier.

Another inspection of beauty (after lunch this time) before we set out for Geikie
Bruce and I enthused over the scenery despite the rain: we were in love with the myriad glistening tarns and their backdrop of dove-grey rocks with a pinkish hue. The girls were rather more blasé, telling us that the scenery was like the western coast of Sweden.
Now it was time to climb again: with necks bent low to the driving rain, up the slope we moiled. I gave my compass to Molly, asking her to sing out if our line drifted too much from the direction we wanted (this is often best done from behind. Bruce usually does it if we’re just two). All was well, except for the time. Our stops and checkings and decision makings were slowing us down. Now it was 4.35 and we were at a top, but not at the top of Geikie. Rather, we were on a high point (1140ms) called The Bastion, which is tall enough to be an Abel, but is not one as Geikie is next to it, and there is not a drop of 150ms between them. To get from The Bastion to Geikie, you have to descend about 70 metres to a saddle and climb again (even more). The scrub became thicker. Visibility was zero. It’s quite possible that ten metres from us there was a glorious, scrub-free route, but we didn’t have the luxury of sight.

Bruce and I were now anxious about elapsed time (and actual time). His capacities were waning. Molly in particular was all for pressing on. Her argument was that we couldn’t get any wetter, and we’d be back shortly after dark, even if not before dark. Both of these statements were true, and had it not been raining, I would have been happy to continue, but wet cold is the worst cold, so my reply was that although we couldn’t get wetter, we could get colder, and I had a man with Parkinson’s to think about. Had they not been with us, we would have turned around earlier, in fact, but I was indeed pleased to have climbed something, even if not Geikie.

One of very few photos taken on the Geikie part of the expedition – a long exposure of a tarn

The cliff line that we followed on our return journey was exhilarating with its sense of space out to our right as we made excellent speed along it, using movement as a means of warming ourselves up. Just as it was time to leave it (it swings around from the direction we needed), Bruce decided he needed more tablets to fund his motion, so we all stopped while he felt around in his daypack and did his tablet thing. I used the waiting time to photograph – just three quick snaps of nothing much, but it was the first opportunity in ages where I was stopped doing nothing and it wasn’t raining too badly. The girls were still with us, but when we turned around having packed back camera and tablets, they had disappeared. Oh well, they’d be up ahead, no doubt over that little rise just there. But when we mounted that little rise, they were absolutely nowhere to be seen. The mist closed right back in, and Molly had my compass. (We never saw them again until we reached our tent).

Sunrise from our tent window
Bruce was tired, despite his tablets (it had been a long day!), and I was going more on feel than anything else. Paper maps (which I had) are pretty useless with nil visibility, and I was unwilling to walk with the gps screen on lest I fall and break it, or run out of battery from overuse. I save it for emergencies, so headed us in the direction I felt was right. My feelings were pretty good and we didn’t go off course too much, but we definitely did not choose the fastest route, and Bruce was stumbling a bit. Time went by and it got darker. I could hear him breathing at almost a grunt each breath. I tried to jolly him along. I was ready to finish this adventure.

Same: different observer position
I checked the gps again. Yes, on vague course, but we were lower than I wanted; we had not happened on the track that existed in this area, and we still had more left to climb than desirable given the grunts I was hearing (not Azaranka level: just quiet ones, but there). A few more small falls, but we were gaining good height and at last we reached the cliffs that define the summit. But where was our tent?

Now I’ve gone back to the actual summit, 2 mins from the tent. Losing the pink. My Lee GND filter was in my pack, but I didn’t have time to get it out 🙁

 I stood in the way-marked yellow dot (that indicated its whereabouts) and could not see it. We circled and circled. I began to feel mild panic when at last we saw its shape. We must have been a mere three metres away and yet it had been hidden from us by the thick soup of cloud. It was only six-thirty, but it appeared to be about eight, judging by the light.

The sun is making a valiant attempt at mounting the ridge
Next morning, Bruce had real trouble waking me for sunrise. The wind had flapped the tent all night and I didn’t fall asleep before three a.m.. I missed what he tells me was a beautiful red sky.  He nearly gave up rousing me, but tried a second time and got success. I dashed outside, and luckily did get some before the sky lost all its pink and the mist closed back in for another few hours.
The descent was uneventful.

Last pink from the top. Oh how I love this place.
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Ragged Jack 2014 Nov

We have crested the slope at this stage, and believe (falsely) that the summit of Ragged Jack is only a quick play along the rocks away.

It now seems to me astonishing that I have driven past Ragged Jack so many times without ever noticing its existence. I guess my eyes were always fixed on the more dominating Ben Lomond massif behind, which grabs the limelight due to its bulk, and yet, Ragged Jack is a much more interesting shape. Now that I’ve climbed it and know of its presence, I think it’s a wonderful mountain, and can’t imagine failing to register it. John Berger, in his excellent book Ways of Seeing, discusses how knowledge influences what and how we see, and certainly, knowing Ragged Jack as I now do, will forever influence the way I regard it in the future.

Having fun with the self-timer at the summit cairn.

It’s always wonderful when predicted bad weather moves through early (or fails to appear). Tomorrow was supposed to be the one sunny day of the week, but this morning, the sun was shining and the sky looked clear, so I suggested to my Swedish visitors that we go climb Ragged Jack after lunch. Of course, they readily agreed.

It works better with me at the button :-). Here is Salome jumping.
I have no idea why, but I was expecting very thick bush and a long section of bashing through it before emerging at a rocky section, final climb to the top. The actuality was far nicer than the expectation, and the girls and I enjoyed not only getting our two points (they’re now right into this points business) but we delighted in the climb itself, and the forest we went through.
As my car does not indicate decimal points of a km, as road RJ7 was not labelled, and as the gps said we were west of where we needed to be when we stopped, we were a little uncertain at the start, but decided to just climb anyway: the contours were self-evident and if the path we had was not the right one, we’d just go across to the real one through the bush at some other stage. As it was, the path did all the things I wanted it to, so we didn’t need to leave it.

Summit view, looking to the southern end of the Ben Lomond massif.

We climbed using it for 34 minutes, until we found the group of very obvious cairns that the book promised us. What we hadn’t been promised, but what made life easier, was a series of tapes and cairns that allowed us to chatter instead of concentrating on navigation as we climbed further through the terrain that was pretty open and nicely rocky. We were all enjoying ourselves, and playing “spot the cairn” like a treasure hunt with an obstacle course thrown in for good measure.

And my favourite summit view, to the other half of Ragged Jack and Mt Barrow beyond.
It took 30 minutes to climb from the path to a point where we had crested the main climb that lead to the summit. From there we just had to follow the cliff line to the highest point. That, however, was easier said than done, as it was here that we met thick bush that slowed us down as we tried to find less prickly paths through it (we were a lot more successful at that on the way back: such terrain is easier seen from above). The final part along the top took us 27 mins.

Up there we had our obligatory jumps and poses, a snack and a gaze at the surrounding mountains, and then it was time to descend, hoping to see the same wombat that Molly saw, but Salome missed, on the way up.
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Freycinet, Mt, and Mt Graham 2014 Nov

Mt Freycinet and Mt Graham Nov 2014

Sunrise, Friendly Beaches
The day for climbing My Freycinet and Mt Graham had a remarkably lazy feel to it right from the start. Sunrise was magnificent, and we were in no hurry to leave the beautiful beach that we’d camped beside. It’s pretty hard not to want to linger longer by pure white sand, aquamarine water and pink sky.

Having climbed Mt Dove (and Mt Amos) the previous day, the four of us were still in a jubilant mood, and looking forward to today’s mountains, even though they offered no particular climbing challenges. Having changed our plans of where to sleep (see yesterday’s posting), we were running about 28 hours late, but that didn’t matter on a day with only two easy mountains on the programme and all day in which to complete them.

Wineglass Beach

Off we set at last for the Wineglass Bay saddle. Wineglass never palls. A google search tells me that it is consistently rated as one of the top ten beaches of the world – which means that the judges have unexpectedly good taste. It is magic. For the second time in two days, the girls had to pinch themselves to make sure they hadn’t gone to heaven early. You have to spend time at a beach that wonderful, so we stopped at its entrance to have a swim. (No, not me. Anyone who knows me knows I’m too much of a wuss for that. I always photograph the swimmers and mentally join in that way.) We then lengthened contact with the beach by having a slightly early lunch at the other end. The day was long; our goals still easily achievable.

View from Mt Freycinet.

At last we had reached the business end of the day: stomachs satisfied, swimming urge dissipated, off we climbed through the forest and along the track that was almost white with the eroded quartz grains. Everywhere we looked, coloured flowers drooped over the track, picking up the light as they did so – shining yellow, white, pink and purple and greeting us as we passed, brushing our legs with their perfume.

Molly on Mt Freycinet

Up on the tops we met a group from LWC who had also chosen the single dry location of Tasmania this weekend, and warm hugs and greetings (and introductions to the Swedish girls) were exchanged. They were on their way to the beach below to camp, while our goal was to sleep on the summit of Mt Graham. If you’re a regular reader, you’ll by now know that that is my style. We only took about five more minutes after meeting the others to arrive at our destination, so were setting up our tents quickly and looking out at louring clouds. Hey. BoM said there would be no rain here today. How dare they look so businesslike! For the first time that day, there was a little haste. We did want to summit Freycinet today and not postpone it. There was still enough light.

Me, flying over Mt Freycinet.

It took only eighteen minutes down to the saddle without packs, and then twenty three up Freycinet along a track that filled us with delight as it weaved through the open forest replete with flowers. Once we were on top, we could relax about encroaching darkness – and the weather. We still had heaps of light left, and the rain was holding off. It was time for general exploration, handstands and jumping poses on the rocks that had enough space for such things.

Sunrise from Mt Graham.

Back at the tents, we were in the process of boiling water for dinner when the hail began. I poured water on the packets of powder to rehydrate them and we all huddled into our two-man tent. It was cosy with four. Hail changed to rain, accompanied by gruff, angry wind, but none of that mattered: we had our safe haven, and ate our rehy-dehy food with relish. The day before we had discovered that we all love singing. There we sat in a tent in the storm and sang for the next three hours: some beautiful, gentle songs with soothing melodies and haunting harmonies; some silly, make-us-all-giggle ones. Some sophisticated, some childish. Some negro spirituals and rounds. On we went, laughing and singing and enjoying ourselves, finishing up with Christmas carols before the girls went out into the night to find their tent and “sleep” (the wind raged so strongly that no one actually got much slumber, but at least we lay down and pretended. It was worth losing sleep just to be there and experience this beautiful mountain and the fury of the elements).

Halfway down

In the morning, we enjoyed sunrise from the summit which was only about two minutes from the tent. The wind had not yet abated, but we weren’t being blown off our feet. A bank of clouds prevented the sun from coming straight out of the ocean, but we loved it anyway, and gazed in wonder that one could camp in a spot such as this. The girls bubbled with enthusiasm.

Salome on Wineglass Beach

We sang nearly the whole way down the mountain, full of joy at the beauty around us, and stopped at the beach for yet more swimming, eating and gymnastics. The last time I did handstands was in the 1980s, when I did them in the surf with my niece, Sarah, gleefully doing stands in shallow water and then being tipped over by the approaching wave. It was time to see if I could still do them. I thought it would be rather embarrassing to end up needing to be helicoptered out because I’d hurt my back doing cartwheels along the beach, but fortunately it didn’t come to that. Both handstands and cartwheels  “worked” (generous assessment), but certainly not with anything like the style of my teenage years!! I used to adore gymnastics. Legs were not straight; body was not directly over my hands – but I had huge fun trying. Salome and Molly were fantastic. It’s actually very hard in the sand, as it sucks your energy instead of giving you spring back. When you admire the photo of Molly below doing a handless cartwheel, just remember that. Normally such things are done on a sprung floor. Her “bounce factor” is brilliant.

Molly doing a handless cartwheel.
We had also scheduled a climbing of Mt Mayson for this day. The instructions were rather obscure, and we tried about four false leads climbing upwards into thick scrub before we found the one that worked. I was dangling my huge full-frame DSLR (I didn’t have a daypack with me) as well as my Galaxy Note which doubles as my gps system. Both were crashing against the rocks a bit and had me worried about their safety, as most steps involved climbing boulders and sliding along ledges. I felt clumsy; I was also very hungry. It was time for me to have real food. I suggested we go back down to the carpark and deposit our big packs, pick up daypacks and climb back up to where we were, now that we knew we were on the right lead. Molly and Salome agreed. (Bruce had already opted out of this climb and gone to the car by himself.) Down we went, up we climbed, yet again. I was inching around an obstacle on a narrow ledge and noted that I felt decidedly woozy. I was very, very low in blood sugar. I think I was also low in salt. I can tell you that after a scallop pie, a lemon-meringue tart, an OJ and a cappuccino I felt fantastic again, but by then it was too late. I have promised to drive the two girls back to finish what we began, but on that day, I needed food more than a summit point. Alas. We’ll be back to Mt Mayson for round two some time very soon.
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Young 2014 Oct

Mt Young 20 Oct 2014.

I was excited as I put on my suncream; I love that smell, redolant of summer holidays, the beach, excitement and adventure. It seemed as if I hadn’t been on a proper Tassie walk forever. I couldn’t even find a compass, and that’s about as likely hat our place as not being able to find a spoon to eat with.

As I left the house, I joked with my husband: “We need to leave for the airport at 7, so dinner will be at 6. See you at one minute to …. haha.”
It was a beautiful day, as promised. The grass was that magic spring green; little lambs gambolled about, leaping randomly, jumping invisible obstacles and filling me with delight. Ben Lomond was sharply delineated as I continued on past it. I was finding the driving enjoyable and relaxing.

However, I seemed to have used up far too much of my beautiful day, I decided, as I at last reached Mathinna. It was already 11.30. I turned to the north. Checking the map at every turn was a bit bothersome, so I drove on, and checked far too late to see that I was now heading to the Falls instead of travelling on Diggers Road, parallel (sort of), to the one I wanted. Back I went, found my road, did a bit more stopping and checking at intersections this time, and there was the road I wanted, the one that would connect Diggers with Evercreech Rd that led all the way to Mt Young: Symonds Rd. It was surprisingly narrow. I rechecked the map – yes, solid orange, same as the roads I had been on, which meant I could drive on it. Yet it was only just wide enough to take the car, and branches were trying to get in the windows. I’d already seen two black snakes on the road. Now, travelling very slowly, I saw a third. I came to a halt to glare banefully at him. He stared menacingly back, eye to eye and no mistaking it. I was starting to think that the solo bit wasn’t so nice today.

I drove over a fallen tree, small, but with side branches – trunk maybe 12 cms thick. Then came two more logs. I’m now going downhill, presumably to a creek. The road is getting even narrower, scratching the car as I went, and also becoming quite sandy and loose. Luckily my husband is not a man who cares about a bit of metal … which is kind of why I married him. His head and heart are in other places. BUT, then I came face to face with a very thick tree that had fallen, and although it had been cleared enough to let a motorbike through, I was not a motorbike and for me there was no way forward. Another big BUT. Could I back up the slope and over those obstacles on a path this narrow and sandy with all sorts of hidden traps at wheel level? Could RACT ever rescue me if the answer to that question was was ‘No’? I remembered my joking words of this morning and feared I would not even be home by one minute to six at this rate.

Whenever I’m in a sticky situation like this, I’ve found from experience that the very best thing to do is to sit and eat – preferably some chocolate, but almost anything will do. I grabbed at my lunchpacket and gobbled some of its wares. That felt better. It wouldn’t do to go backing a car on an empty stomach in that kind of terrain.

 Miraculously, I made it, and after far too much time, found myself driving back towards Mathinna to try a new attack. South to the town, and then east, and once more, north. This trip was getting very long, and the purpose (climbing a mountain, in case you’ve forgotten), seemed still a long way off. The airport was starting to call.

At long last, my mountain, and the goal of this trip, came into view. I wanted to drive until I was due west of it. I now had out the gps as I drove to line up waiting for that point. Going nice and slowly now. Just as I was deciding I was due west, I saw a most heartening and glorious (given my frame of mind at that time) sign – a pink ribbon tied to a tree. That strip of pink ribbon could have been a golden necklace and I wouldn’t have been as happy. I looked at my watch. Time for one hour up, one down.  That should do it. I packed my bag and set out.

Oh the joy of at last being in the bush after such a stressful and protracted journey.  Oh the pleasure of walking through open forest with a green carpet under my feet. I had imagined as I pictured the day in advance, that I would have to bushbash the whole way, and find my own route up through the rocks, but the pink ribbons went on and led me right to the top. Thanks ever so much person /people who put them there. Everything was glorious, I utterly enjoyed the feel of the bush, its smells and its sights … except that in 15 minutes I was standing by the summit trig. That represented a truly shocking drive to walk ratio!!! (17:1).

The view was wonderful, and I stayed a while to take it all in. I could see the sea – very clearly –  and lots of mountains that I’d climbed already. In fact, I think the only mountain in my purview that I hadn’t climbed was Mt Blackboy, which was also on this day’s agenda, but I had now timed myself out of it. The airport called louder and, had that call not had dire consequences if I ignored it, I might have attempted to squeeze in another mountain, but I couldn’t risk anything more going wrong, so quit while I was ahead, and assured myself it had been a lovely morsel of a mountain and that I could bathe in its happy memories for a while without pushing them to the side by adding an extra climb that would be tense as time ticked by.
I came home via the north, heading first from Mathinna to Ringarooma and then west on Ben Ridge Road towards Targa and thence Launceston. It was very interesting seeing new angles on otherwise familiar mountains, such as Ben Nevis.

I arrived home in time to have some berry and almond cake with a cup of tea before throwing some gear in a pack, having a hasty dinner, and driving to the airport, where we ordered citrus tart and cappuccino to try to begin relaxing. I had done almost nothing in terms of physical exercise, but the strain of almost being stuck overnight a very long way from phone range had made me absolutely ravenous.