Tag: bushwalking

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Campbell 2015 Gussy’s first Abel

Mt Campbell: Gussy’s first Abel.

The steps are big when you’re three

This weekend was my birthday, and it was my birthday wish that we have a family weekend at Cradle Mountain, and that we see if Gussy could climb Mt Campbell. I also wanted to climb Mt Kate with at least one of my daughters (and, considering babysitting duties, it would probably only be one), and to see Guss’s delight at his first huge smorgasbord breakfast (he being a gourmet in midget disguise). I hoped to show him wonderful animals and beautiful forest, but these things were secondary to the other wishes.

No wonder he was hungry by the saddle

Little Gussy has been to the summit of quite a few Tasmanian mountains, but he’d hitched a ride in a sling or papoose. I wanted him to actually climb his first peak, and I wanted that peak to be an Abel for sentimental reasons.

Trying his hand at a spot of off-track

His generally preferred style

In planning, I tired to view Mt Campbell through three-year-old eyes in order not to over-tax him. It didn’t seem too steep or too demanding or too long (as an athlete, I’d run from carpark to top in 20 minutes, so regard it as a pimple). I awaited the weekend to see if it would work.

Whilst Campbell seems to me just a nice mole hill, something you can run up in a jiffy, from the height and musculature of a three-year old, it is actually quite daunting. I saw Campbell through different eyes this day.
Guss needed a rest by the first saddle, which he took 32 minutes to reach. I think some walking club groups might take that long. He was doing well. His appetite in that protected bowl with a lake out each side was prodigious – he ate a salad roll, wallaby bites and shortbreads. The climb thus far had obviously worked up an appetite.

Tummies full again, off we set. He made it to the top in a shade under 60 minutes from the saddle, which included another much-needed, yet short, food break at a lookout rock maybe half way. At the end of the steep section, but before the summit, he plonked down on the ground, ready for more food treats. I thought he’d had enough. Yelena wanted to touch the summit, so I suggested she go there while we stayed with Guss. “No,” he said, “I just need food and then I can touch the summit.” I was surprised and thrilled – thrilled that it was his own initiative to actually complete the job to the end. He’d done the climb. In many people’s books he could be said to have climbed Mt Campbell already, considering he was about two vertical metres below the summit; he had the summit view, and had gained considerable height, but he knew the real top is where the cairn is, and wanted to be there.

Hoorah, the summit. Let’s just throw a rock.

The long trip down begins
In my calculations and imaginings about whether he could do this climb, I had never considered the way down, assuming the difficult part would be the exertion of the ascent. However, job done, summit achieved, little Gussy had had enough. He wanted a cuddle – continuous cuddle – and he wanted that cuddle to be with mummy. Have you ever tried descending a very steep slope with a wriggling 19.5 kg mass half obscuring the path ahead? I had thought Mt Campbell was a toddler-suitable mountain. I realised as we descended that it was not. It is only because my daughter is an exceptionally strong and capable sportswoman that she managed to descend that slope with a tired child wrapped around her. (She was also, at this stage, pregnant with number two).

A bit tricky here

He was unnerved by the angle of the drop and by the way the scree gave way under his feet. At several points we had to pass him down as in a pack haul. Once he was at the saddle again, however, he cheered up (more muesli bars and chocolate), and made it to the end with the promise of being allowed to throw stones in the lake to lure him ever onward. The final hundred metres was done almost at a trot. Any time since, when asked if he liked climbing his mountain, the answer has been an unequivocal “yes”.

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Anne Circuit 2015 Mar

Anne Circuit 19-22 March 2015.

Day one. Lake Judd. Anyone who was superstitious would have believed this venture jinxed on the first day. My friend and fellow fun adventurer, Monika, woke up sick and had to bail out. Next, David, a friend I was going to have great fun sharing photography with, broke his wrist when he slipped on treacherous, slimy boards only 32 minutes into the adventure and had to be taken back to Hobart. Generous Phil volunteered to miss the walk and drive him. Others had to help get his pack and camera back to the car. With such an attrition rate at the start, and with rain driving down, there was a rather gloomy feel and yet those left standing remained excited about what lay ahead: the famous Mt Anne Circuit with all its mystique. We were underway at last.

And still there were seven

Because of the delays and the copious amounts of mud – with some holes on the track being over 120 cms deep (as measured by Stacey’s pole and not her body, fortunately) – the going was slow and we elected to camp down at Lake Judd rather than climbing to the base of Mt Sarah Jane. My disappointment at not being high was mollified by getting to see Lake Judd and its beautiful surrounding rainforest, and completely dissipated later as I lay snug and cozy in my sleeping bag, listening to the sound of the howling, yelping wind up high that reached us ominously down there. On the Lake, there were waves big enough for a midget to go surfing. At one point we had all been thigh deep in water. Our boots and socks were sodden and would remain so for all four days. My dripping gear lay in a ghastly pile in the vestibule; a problem for the morrow. My camera had spent nearly all day in my pack, hiding from the rain.

Day Two. Mt Sarah Jane, and a scary lesson.
Donning saturated, freezing clothes at the start of a day does not exactly cheer, but we got the job done and, shivering, set out back through the glorious rainforest to a track junction, and then up to the base of Mt Sarah Jane. I was cold and enjoying the climb, so when the others offered to let me go ahead, I accepted. This meant, however, that I got very cold up top in the wind, waiting. For most of the rest of the trip, I decided the warmest option was to be up the back or at least in the middle.

Mt Sarah Jane, awaiting our arrival. Mist is just starting to edge its way over the saddle. She looks pretty innocuous, doesn’t she. We took her for granted, so she paid us back big time.
Once you’ve climbed up to the base of Sarah Jane, the hard work is basically done. She looks much reduced in size from that position – a wee pimple of a thing – and hardly to be taken seriously. It looked as if we’d be at the top in about 20 minutes. The others agreed to summit her too, so dumped their big packs and were ready to roll. I already had my daypack on with nibbles and camera inside. Rupert popped in his gps, which seemed almost comically superfluous. I hadn’t bothered with compass or gear. She was right there and a simple undertaking. That said, I was thrilled with the company I was keeping, that they would agree to climb in this weather. Do I need to remind you about how cold we were, having feet that were still icy, despite the climb we’d just done? The day was dull and grey; views were not promising, and an icy wind bit you every few minutes. Any normal person would have said: “Not today thanks”, and left it, but these guys said they’d come. As we set out, mist gathered, obscuring our mountain, but we knew where she was.
After maybe only five minutes’ climbing, the wind gathered ferrocity. Some blasts completely flattened me, so I climbed almost lying against the rock to prevent being tossed into space, a piece of light debris for this malicious force. Shards of sago snow bit my face and stung. Each glance back I could see the coloured shapes of the others through the dense gloom, so on we proceeded, not spreading out too much. Cairns were hard to find and I felt like a blinkered horse. My balaclava was blowing in circles around my face. My pockets had been turned inside out by the wind. On we climbed, surviving, until at last the summit was reached. Up there, I was so cold I was not coping. While we waited for the others, Stacey hugged me to try to give me some of her warmth. I was now into violent shivers. The summit photo was swiftly taken and we turned around straight away. At this stage, Peter was having trouble with his coat. The wind virtually ripped it off him so he looked like a scarecrow, the coat tails flying up above his head while only the arms stayed in place.

Spanner Lake, our tent site on night two, as seen next day from above.

Down we ventured. I was now too freezing to lead; I just wanted to be a sheep in the pack. Rupert kindly took on the respinsibility and off we set, groping our way in dense mist. Suddenly we could see neither the next cairn, nor the last two in the queue, who had, unknown to us, continued straight ahead instead of swinging around the mountain as we had done. We yelled and screamed, but the wind gobbled our noise. Rupert took a gps reading: our route lay 20 ms to the left. Boom. Batteries died. I was so cold I wondered if I would share the same fate. If we couldn’t find the others, that was a very real possibility. Every static moment made my core temperature drop a bit more, and yet we couldn’t abandon the other two. Relief is hardly an adequate word to describe the emotions on finding them. We hugged each other for warmth as Pete struggled with his coat and the rocks to join us. What had begun as the simplest of ambles up a slope had nearly ended in fatality. We all felt humbled by the unrealised potential for disaster we had narrowly escaped.
Compared to that epic, the rest of the day was gloriously lacking in adventure, and we continued on after a brief lunch to our camping place at Spanner Lake. As we crested the high point from which we would drop down to the lake, there was a glorious view of the Lonely Tarns below, surrounded by drama and magic. Gelid as I was, I wanted to capture this beauty, so I delayed the others while I retrieved my camera from the pack and they stood in the biting wind. Peter’s pack cover blew off, but was retrieved by Rupert. I got the camera out of the pack, but then spent five minutes struggling hopelessly, grunting impotently but achieving nothing: I didn’t have the strength to undo the simple clip that would open the bag containing it. No photo of that glorious scene. I sadly placed the camera back in the pack, and on we continued to our goal, which ended up being so awash that we found it difficult to find a spot in which to put tents that had not become a partial, makeshift lake.
Lightning Ridge with its gnarly, warty spine of rocks glared down at us (when the mist parted – briefly). Rain continued. Once more the revolting, and now smelly as well as sodden, gear was deposited in the vestibule while we attempted to warm up in our tiny tent havens.

Climbing Lightning Ridge

Day Three. Lightning Ridge, Mt Lot, The famous Notch. The apex; the glory.
This was one of the most dramatic climbs of my entire life. Striding Edge (UK) eat your heart out. It’s nothing compared to Lightning Ridge. Wow, what a beauty.
The day began in a prosaic enough way, like most other days: on with the putrid, sodden gear, on with the packs, no lighter despite three days’ eating due to the wetness of the tents. Off we set, over a creek at the end of Lake Spanner (whose shape I hadn’t yet seen) and up through the steep forest, knowing that the sharp ridge we’d seen from afar would be at the end somewhere up there in the heavens. Up, up we went, through glorious, but rather surprising forest: it had been raining almost incessantly, and yet, moist and lush as the forest may well have been, there was not one drop of running water to be had. I had not even thought about carrying water: it was the sort of weather in which you just pointed your open mouth upwards if you wanted a drink, but the rain had now ceased, and the strong wind must have dried out the water channels and puddles. No worries. It wasn’t a day that demanded continual drinking. I’d find water somewhere later, and I did, in a puddle in the rocks right on top.

Lightning Ridge, looking back along our exciting route

Stacey and I were together at the front, climbing away when all of a sudden we just popped out into open territory: we’d reached the rocky spine and Oh what a view!!!! Now I could see the shape of Spanner Lake, and all the surrounding dolerite pillars and mountains delicately crowned in mist. It was as steep as it’s possible to be without collapsing, and utterly mesmerising. I hate holding people up with my photography, but luckily the others were far enough behind to give me time to get out the camera and happily shoot away. I was sure they’d want a break anyway – to admire the view, even if not to eat and recharge their batteries. (Still no puddles for the negligent me).

Mt Lot, the view therefrom, and our way forward along that ridge.

The climb was protracted, which I fully appreciated for safety reasons. The times various photos were taken indicate how carefully we negotiated this supremely difficult territory – and the hard section of The Notch hadn’t yet begun. Even before we’d reached this famous stumbling block, we’d needed to do several pack passes – spots where the going was tricky, with a dangerous drop below if things went askew, and where a heavy pack hanging out the back (especially if it behaved in any way unexpectedly, if a strap got caught, or if it changed position quickly for some reason) could send the sad owner on a one way trip to eternity. On they went, off they came, as we sidled around nasty corners or inched our way up or down tiny ledges. Sometimes you’d come to what seemed a cul de sac, the way ahead thin air; the drop below, momentous. “No. They can’t POSSIBLY want me to spring down there! And certainly not with a pack on.”
At one point, we breasted a mound that I thought was “just” the high point of Lightning Ridge, but Rupert announced that we had just climbed Mt Lot. I couldn’t believe it. We were on this mountain of Great Stories. I thought it was still to come. We climbed both summits, just in case, and proceeded on our way. Our mission lay further on.

Lots Wife, as seen from Lot. He did, indeed, leave her behind.

And so, eventually, we came face to face with The Notch (to be said with a slightly quaking voice), for which Rupert had been lugging a strap and carabiner the whole way. Stacey went first, and we watched her (roped) lower herself over what seemed a bottomless pit. When my turn came and I looked over the edge, however, I could see a small ledge that held little fear (seeing’s I was roped). Yes, one lowered oneself, blind, into oblivion, but with the rope, if the fall got out of control, it would be impossible to just roll forever, and after that single manoeuvre, the rest was easy. There was not even a need for rope once that first daunting leap of faith was made. Whew. I had been rather full of adrenalin anticipating this moment.

The Notch. Sue begins the leap of faith with Rupert holding the rope for her.

Once we were all safely down, and rather elated that the worst was now behind us, up we went again, sadly needing a couple more pack removals to give us the needed momentum up slopes where our arms were just not strong enough to pull us up with the extra weight. Not all of us needed this every time, but I used this technique almost every occasion it was on offer: my pack with my full-frame camera on board was very heavy, but I did not regret the weight when I considered the shots I had already taken. Perhaps the others regretted the delays, but I was happy, despite the inconvenience of the weight. I hope the shared memories the shots provide reconcile them if they were annoyed.

Playing around on High Shelf camp, waiting for dinner time. Mt Anne featured.

On we sauntered, happy now that the rain had stopped and the wind had dried us out a bit. The sun even started to make a concerted effort to appear. Suddenly Rupert announced: Here’s our spot for the night. “What? We’re finished?” Wow. It was only 4pm. The sun was now shining. We were perched on a glorious shelf with a magic view. We turned the place into a Chinese Laundry in about five minutes flat, making a desperate attempt to dry out tents, bags, anoraks, overpants and everything else before the sun set. Hot soup was an item that urgently yelled to be on my agenda. I went across to join the others who were basking in the sun, staring at Mt Anne, brewing tea or soup. “This is the life,” I exclaimed and everyone agreed. Who cares about a few wet items of clothing when you can be here, in wilderness this glorious, staring out at sublimity in every direction? The others were drying their shoes and socks, but I knew my shoes would take a week to dry (poor boots, on their debut walk – muddy, scuffed and ill-treated), and I wanted to explore our new environs, so kept my stuff on for a few more hours. Needless to say, we were blessed with a glorious sunset. I stayed outside almost until the last light went: it was just too beautiful to be in a tent with the zip done up. I was pretty freezing by the time I admitted defeat and left the pink valley below me to its own devices.

Sunset from my tent site. The Notch is visible as the gulch to the right on the horizon.

Day Four. Mt Anne for most; Eve Peak for me. Mt Eliza and down.
I was worried about the 8 a.m. departure for today, as I knew that if sunrise were beautiful, I would want time to photograph it at length. Luckily I managed to be punctual, despite being delayed by beauty. I hadn’t been so lucky during the night. I had been rather busy with mild gastro, and my frequent visits to the chilly realms outside were made worse by the fact that my tent was absolutely sodden with condensation. I was feeling very ordinary indeed, and rather weak, as we set out.

Dawn arrives at Mt Anne next morning

I am not a person who thinks that once you’ve climbed a mountain there’s no need to climb it again. Not at all. I’ve climbed Cradle six times now and am looking forward to the seventh, eighth and ninth times. Each time the view has different lighting; new features on the horizon take on new meaning. I run the Cataract Gorge route almost every day of my life and never tire of it. However, Anne has a sloping edge that I find dangerous, and I was feeling quite queasy thanks to my gastro. Meanwhile, I have never climbed Eve Peak nearby, so opted for a new peak rather than doing a walk that I find uncomfortable, to see a view that would be hazy at the top.

Off Sue sets to join the others in climbing Anne.

 

Anne from Eve Peak

I climbed Eve quickly, and got in a view before the mist heralding the next lot of rain started to gather strength. From the top I watched columns of mist rising, and beat a fairly hasty retreat to where I’d left my pack, remembering our Sarah Jane experience of how quickly the mist can roll in to confuse and disorient. At least this time I’d brought my compass. At about this time, the wind picked up strength again. The group had agreed to reunite on the summit of Mt Eliza. I saw no more reason for hanging around where I was. In this wind I’d prefer to be moving, so I went to our rendezvous point and hoped to find shelter. I did. Kind of. It was a long wait, but I met a few very nice people while I was perched behind a rock, and that helped to pass the time. It had been a wonderful trip: I had plenty to think about when not entertaining guests in my lair.

The final descent
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Byron 2015 Mar

Mt Byron Mar 2015 
The reason I climb mountains is because I love being up high (I also love climbing trees); I adore the physical act of climbing, and my soul delights in being with nature and gazing at sublime infinitude.

I am also, however, a task-oriented person, who likes to achieve the goal for the day. After two failed attempts at the summit of Byron in as many tries on club walks, it was time to be my own boss. I wanted success this time. I’d look up how many points I got some time or other. The summit was my goal.

First official day of autumn. Frost says “Good”.
The trip to the ferry “threatened” to be the highlight of the day. Sunrise was magnificent as I drove up the Poatina Rd to the central highland; on top, autumn announced its arrival with glorious patches of sparkling frost. Lake St Clair (Leeawuleena – magnificent name) was shrouded in mist. It was going to be a gorgeous day. A temporary dampener, however, was put on matters when Steve, the cheery, affable ferry driver, informed me that he was finishing up at the end of the week. I wonder if his employers understand what an amazing asset they’re losing. Steve’s friendly and knowledgeable trips have come to be a grand entree to every expedition in the area, aiding in the excitement of each venture.
You don’t replace someone like that easily: a new ferry driver, sure, but an asset like Steve … ever?

Leeawuleena (Lake St Clair).
I love the forest lining Leeawuleena – always so rich, lush and vivid in its greenness. Happily I strode out, staring intermittently up at my mountain, and at all the old friends that surrounded my journey. Unfortunately the atmospheric mist had already evaporated. It took 17 mins to the turn off; and 59 more up to the top of the Byron gap, where the real work would begin. This is the third time I have walked this “track”, yet I managed to dream my way off it twice on this trip. Fortunately, the first time was right near the start, so I turned on my gps tracker in case I should need it on the way back down. The black dashed line for track on the map bore no resemblance whatsoever to the track I was marking. I was glad that I wasn’t trying to navigate myself to the line on the map for safety.

Paths like this require constant attention to stay on them.
After the gap, I had to make my own way to the top. There was talk of a cairned route if you happened upon it. I didn’t, so nosed my way to my left through pretty thick scrub and along a rather precipitous cliff-ledge until I came to a promising looking gully leading upwards. Happily, my map indicated that this could be followed to the final summit mound (which would hopefully not be fortified by more unmapped cliffs. One never knows on maps that don’t back up photogrammetry with cartography). The map certainly didn’t tell me that the rocks comprising this backdoor entrance were wash-machine size, with some heaving needed sometimes to get to the next layer. I began to worry about the return journey and the still existing possibility of getting trapped with no retreat reasonable. I hankered after a nice easy cairned route. I sensed the effects of adrenalin.

Byron’s pandani forests are a delight
The mound ahead looked as if it could contain the summit, but I didn’t dare invest too much hope in this. Too often such mounds lead to a view of the next, higher one. This one, however, offered my approaching form a sighting of three little rocks perched atop one another. I had made it.

Looking at Manfred, Horizontal Hill, Guardians, Gould, Geryon et al
I actually felt nauseous with anxiety, as the descent still lay before me. I didn’t linger on top like I normally do, just in case I needed lots of time to find a way down. Besides, lunchtime hadn’t quite arrived yet. I took photos and then set out to try my luck on the return journey. This time was different. I happened on a cairn on my chosen early section, and one cairn led to another. Eureka. This route was SO easy. It was 30 mins faster than my way up – most unusual for me. I usually ascend faster than I drop, due to my eagerness to see the top and my hatred of stopping before I’m there. I am not normally happy to leave, so dawdle a bit.

View to Horizontal Hill, Guardians, Gould, Geryon and more
In the safety of the saddle, all work behind me, I enjoyed my lunch, looking out at Frenchmans Cap.  I was easily in time for the afternoon ferry, except that it had been cancelled. I was the only customer. Now began the long walk home. No matter. The forest is wonderful. I slotted into my rhythm, walking and singing my way through fairyland back to the visitor centre, where I enjoyed a delicious veggie curry before embarking on the drive home in the fading light, shooing countless conferences of wallabies, all sitting erect in the middle of the road chatting, unwilling to have their colloquies interrupted by a mere vehicle. I stopped to let each group finish its important discussion. My speed ranged from 0 to 50 km.p.h in deference to their need to converse on dirt road.

An unusual perspective on Olympus, with Leeawuleena and Lale Petrarch balanced on its outstretched arms.
The challenges of the day, apart from driving, climbing, and avoiding garrulous marsupials, involved walking 36.5 “kilometre equivalents” (where 100 ms climbed = 1 km equiv). Quite an active day.

The more southerly route is me fumbling my way to the top, edging around cliffs. The northern one is the cairned route. which I happened upon up the top.

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Thumbs 2014 Nov

The Thumbs, Nov 2014

The Thumbs as seen from Wylds Craig. They call!!

Back in 2012 when I declared that I wanted to join a bushwalking club to have company on longer, harder walks and to meet others who shared my passion for wild places now that my husband’s Parkinson’s disease prevented him from joining my wilder adventures, I had a nebulous, undelineated vision of the kind of walk that this might involve.

Pursuing our way across the button-grass valley to our tent site. 

The walk I did last weekend, in which a valiant group of us climbed The Thumbs (a sharp, slippery, skywards-pointing column of rock at 1204 ms asl) in mist and intermittent light rain, seeing little but experiencing much, was an articulated version of exactly what I had had in mind.

Climbing; the mist obscures our goal.

Everyone was cheerful at our meeting point, all happy to be undertaking this challenge. I, too, was mildly excited, but also apprehensive: I had no expectation of actually reaching the top as I was temporarily operating with only one hand, and I was sure I’d need two for the final, vertiginous climb. I’d get as far as I could go, and enjoy the journey, however far it took me. The slippery conditions reduced my chances considerably. I also had stomach cramps that made me a little sombre. One foot in front of the other: let’s see how far that gets me.

She’s up there somewhere
Graham is still smiling. Is he just laughing at the joke of taking on something as big as this in the mist?

We arrived at our intended overnight spot, set up our little tent city and retreated into our self-erected shelters to eat in the dry before reassembling to attempt our goal. The distance to the top was not far, horizontally speaking, but the vertical challenge meant that the expectation was three hours in each direction. Here we come.

Nearly there

Mud meant that sometimes we slid backwards more than we pushed forwards. Often it was the case that clutching grass or small bushes was the only thing that stopped us slipping back to a ridiculous extent. My hand was weighing on my mind as I did my single-handed grabs. Was I ridiculous to even try when I am in this state? We came to a spot where I just couldn’t haul myself up, and asked for a shove from behind. “It’s going to get a lot trickier than this,” Glen warned. I thought he was right. I looked back down the slope, thinking about bailing out, but knew that would cause more problems than it would solve, considering I was part of a group, so continued on. In fact, we were both wrong: for a one-handed climber, that particular moment was the trickiest part of the entire undertaking.

Graham, one of the few who STOOD on the summit. Most of us were content to just sit.
The mist was thick and the drizzle pretty drizzly as we arrived in a little saddle before the summit. Graham, our worthy leader, said our path lay around the northern side, so we had more circling to do. In that shroud, it was hard to find the mountain, let alone the best way up. On we went, looking for a promising chute to use to gain height. All shapes were obnubilated, but I could see with great clarity the fact that there was no way that I would be attempting a climb like this in these conditions without the presence of a group. We fed off each other, providing many sets of eyes, giving each other verbal or practical support. “Na. Too airy,” said Ben as he explored one lead. “This way looks OK,” offered another. One person failed at “over”; another reckoned we could fit under. Bit by bit we worked our communal way upwards.

Descending using the preferred five-points-of-contact method.
At the very top, the rock was slippery, the penalties for falls in any direction fatal. As G summarised it: “If someone falls, there’d be no point in setting off a PLB. We’d just try to console the family afterwards.” I found it an endearing factor that guys and girls alike treated the summit with enormous respect. Most of us approached and exited the highest point crawling or by “bumming” it. On a dry day, we would have probably approached with dignity and aplomb, but this was no dry day, and you could feel the slip factor with most steps you took. We gave it the obligatory touch and departed quickly to less sloppy ground. Thanks to the group effort, every single one of us got there – injured and uninjured; vertigo sufferers and the unchallenged in this regard; the fit and the less so. All of us made it, and I regard that as a huge testimony to Graham’s leadership.

Looking back at our conquered goal

And looking down at part of where we’d come from (our tents are still out of sight, way below).
I had wondered how on earth I was going to descend such a slippery, steep slope with only one hand, but had refused to contemplate this problem before it confronted me directly. As it was, there was very little difficulty: I just used the one good hand twice as often. Soon enough we all got back to the tents unscathed.

View across to Lake Gordon

 

The south face ascent that we rejected on this occasion 🙂

It was great to be warm and dry for the first time in about ten hours. I felt full of respect for my fellow travellers, almost all of whom had had to overcome some challenge or other in order to reach that goal. I love being with people for whom doing something like that is more important than maintaining creature comforts at home. I love people who are prepared to get dirty, uncomfortable, sweaty, cut by razor-sharp grass, carry heavy weights, be bruised a bit by the odd rock, fall in disguised mud holes, get exhausted fighting obstacles, soaking wet from rain and bushes, or decidedly out of breath – all in pursuit of an experience of the sublime: an encounter with the infinite and with a factor far, far more grand than the self.

Evening light at tent city. Clear Hill behind left.
The next morning, we walked to a point overlooking the Gordon Gorge before our walk out. I was so starving by dint of the weekend’s exertions that I ate the equivalent of two full dinners while driving home in order to eat a third one prepared by my waiting husband.

The dramatic Gordon Gorge. Mt Wright behind.

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Dove 2014 Nov

Mt Dove Nov 2014


My hands sting with abrasions; there are several small slits that smart even more; my thighs have little pock marks and I feel pretty shattered – and yet I can say without the slightest touch of irony that I had one of the best weekends ever – climbing Mt Dove (and later, Mts Graham and Freycinet) on Tasmania’s East Coast.

Salome climbs Mt Dove. You can see we have come across a cairn. We kept finding them – a wonderful reassurance that we were choosing the right route. However, DO NOT think that you can follow these. We very rarely saw one cairn from the one behind. They were a happy confirmation of success, not a guidance to it.
I have noted before that it is often the case that when you give, you end up receiving far more than you ever gave. The two Swedish girls I took mountain climbing this weekend think I have done them an enormous favour, and yet I feel as if I am the one who has received.

Last week I accepted into our house two girls who were the friends of the daughter of a friend (Elin is now, of course, friend in her own right – I am just explaining the connection) that I made orienteering in Sweden in 1986. A friendship that began with a random act of hospitality on Marie’s part has continued to this day as a wonderful extended family attachment. On the weekend, I agreed to take the girls into the mountains. Plans A and B both had to be abandoned due to the weather, leaving only one dry place in the whole of Tasmania: the Freycinet Peninsula. Off we headed. I had that “here we go again” feeling; the girls were excited.

Molly climbing Dove

One of the things we learn when we become parents is to see the world afresh through eyes encountering its wonder for the first time, and that is what we experienced on the weekend through the eyes of Molly and Salome. Whereas we, utterly spoiled by beauty, were far too blasé about the marvels of Freycinet, Molly and Salome believed they had landed in heaven, and shared their joy and excitement in noise and action. We loved it.

“Yes” to beauty, says Salome.

The first item on our agenda was Mt Dove, the rather inhospitable next-door neighbour to the more-climbed Mt Amos. However, as we parked, the sky looked ominous. We wanted to climb something, so opted for the much easier Amos, knowing we would get wet. Dove is not a mountain you climb in the rain. Its granite, nicely abrasive when dry, is as slippery as polished marble when wet. We just took the barest essentials, as Amos is a very quick climb, and off we set. My husband, who has Parkinson’s disease, said that seeing’s we were only climbing Amos, he would come too. He had no intention of attempting Dove, which is a much more difficult mountain, with huge slabs of exposed, dangerously sloping granite cliffs, and no path up it. You have to find your own way in the maze of bush and rocks, losing sight of the wider context of your climb as you get buried in the minutiae of the needs of the next few metres.

Molly, excited by the view. We’re now pretty sure we’ll make it to the top, and are feeling pretty excited.

Amos was, as usual, wonderful, but just as we were appreciating it, and deciding that Dove would definitely have to wait until Monday, a hail squall came, and we needed to shelter under some boulders. Ice bombardment finished, it was time to descend, but the girls and I were curious about the route we would take when the weather cleared.
“Let’s just suss out the early part,” we agreed. Off the summit we slid in the direction of the Dove-Amos saddle. It was fun, and my husband was coping. We stood there and looked longingly in the direction of the next summit.
“Let’s do it,” said Salome.
“Yeah, let’s” we all agreed – Bruce too (the trust of this man that I will manage to keep him alive in the direst of circumstances is remarkable). Off we set.

Getting higher, but still not there yet

A look at our route reveals the sad fact that we hit a dead end early on, but only one, and after that it was pretty smooth sailing – challenges were there in plenty, of course, but all overcome with little difficulty. About half way up, we had a manoeuvre that we all agreed was beyond Bruce’s hampered capabilities, so we “parked” him at a spot with a nice view, marked his whereabouts on my gps, and continued as a trio. Up the granite, through a corridor of scrub, up the granite …. we repeated this pattern, gaining height admirably. Oh the excitement when we saw the trig just a few metres away around the corner of a boulder. All three of us were overjoyed. I had given up on this mountain for this day, and here we were. We jumped around and photographed and uttered all the superlatives that one mutters when faced with supreme beauty. Molly, amongst other things, said: “Amazing”, and Salome and I did the first thing that came into our heads at the mention of that word, and began, to our mutual amazement, to sing “Amazing Grace”. Next thing, all three of us were singing all four verses of this beautiful song in harmony as we descended, retracing our steps. We sang the rest of the way down. At last, I have found other people who love to sing while they walk.

Yes, we did it. Excited girls on top.

Back at the saddle, we tossed up whether to climb back up to the summit of Amos and descend on the track, or to find our own way down near, but not in, the gully. We voted for the descent option, and set out, sidling around cliffs and tugging at roots and branches as we made our way both along and down. Time marched by. The sun started to get an ominous golden tint and the shadows got long. We appeared to be in a cul-de-sac, in which any direction that was vaguely forward was too hazardous for my husband to attempt, especially as he was now getting tired. No. We’d have to go back and do what we should have done all along, and head back for the summit of Amos, hoping to intercept the track near the top. These rocky bluffs offered too impenetrable a fortress.

This was taken after we had stopped attempting to descend just above the gully and were climbing Amos once more. By this stage, I had stopped fearing that we would spend the night on the mountain, so relaxed enough to take a photo.

Backwards, upwards we pushed with the day drawing to a close. I began to suss out overhangs for overnight possibilities should it become necessary. However, at last with a whoop I called the others: I could see a bit of blue tag. We had mounted the spur we needed and the track now lay slightly below us. Hoorah. What a fabulous team effort it had been. We would be sleeping in our tents tonight after all. I have not yet mentioned that the wind was ferocious – so much so that I had no idea whether any of my photos would turn out, as I had trouble stabilising the camera. As we descended, we were grateful to at last have dropped out of its reach, although we could see it whipping up waves on the normally tranquil water below.

Emerging on top of the spur that would connect us to the Amos track. Victory is in sight.

We had been planning on sleeping at the end of Wineglass Bay, but had now run out of time. The gale was a westerly, so I drove us to the Friendly Beaches where we set up our tents on the sheltered eastern shores, happy and complete after our successful ascent(s).

Sunrise at the Friendly Beaches next morning.
Saga to be continued in the next post, later today or tomorrow.