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Horeb Falls 2019

Horeb Falls day (today) seemed to start quite well. The road beside Lake Rowallan must have been recently worked on, as it had fewer nasty attacking rocks and deceiving puddles than on my last visit. And, it wasn’t raining, despite BoM predictions – which admittedly still had plenty of time to come to fruition; there were some very healthy clouds floating around the place.

Off I set, along the Jacksons Creek track, which I intended to stay on for 15-20 minutes until it crossed the creek on a swing bridge, after which I would hive off to the west. Hm. The track was actually frozen and I was sliding everywhere. I had to slow right down. Even when I trod on old bracken (of which there was plenty), I was skating, as the fronds were coated in a thin rime. The myriad fallen branches were also treacherously slippery, and, hm, where was the track, actually? I kept having to search, as the large quantities of bush debris (artistically dotted with snow patches) obscured any trace of a path. Sometimes I just gave up and hoped to pick it up later.

Cascades on Moses Creek

At one stage, I got out my gps to check. Horrors. I was nowhere near the mapped track. Just in case, I called up my Cathedral Mountain route. Ah. Yes. Hardly for the first time in my experience in Tasmania, the track on the map and that on the ground bore not the slightest resemblance to each other. The dashes on the map were a mere “artist’s” fumblings, which is quite dangerous when you actually need accuracy. Luckily I had my own old route with me, so used it to guide myself back to where the ground track was.

Jacksons Creek was roaring, and several pop-up creeks had appeared along the route. I decided to change my plan to ensure that I could get across the next creek with maximum safety, and continued on the “formed” track for a while later. Surely it would cross at a good place. It did. With the aid of a broken branch, I even kept my precious tootsies dry. Wow, the stones were slimy!! Being solo in territory like this requires extra care.

Lower Horeb Falls

I climbed a short steep incline, swerving now away from the track, and began the bushbashing section of the day. Unfortunately, I had earlier ascertained that my compass was not playing game and was randomly selecting directions. (Had I accidentally brought a northern hemisphere one along? Possible.) My map said to keep the more sharply contoured section to my left, the flatter land to my right, and use that to get around the spur, climbing a little.

I have already mentioned the debris. There must have been an almighty storm in the somewhat recent past. On the nose of the spur, fallen trees were piled on top of each other as far as my eyes could see, in an untidy fiddlesticks jumble. The wood was icy, sodden and treacherous, but I could not get under or around it, so would have to do what I hate doing, and tread on wet wood. ‘Over’ was the only way if I was to move forwards. I made gastropods look hasty.

Testing everything before i committed, and using, as ever, all five limbs. I snailed my way over the obstacles, eventually reaching the next band, one of thick bracken and tree ferns that concealed submerged tree mines.

It was with enormous relief that I finally made it back to the rainforest. Ahhhh. The green lushness of that calming moss and the delicate myrtle leaves instantly erased all the anxiety and negative feelings caused by the spur. According to the map, the falls were still about a hundred metres upstream, but I could see foam and beauty below me, and I don’t trust Tasmaps’ placement of waterfalls, so I descended to the creek to investigate. Definitely worth photographing! I dumped my pack (with, possibly hilariously, two sets of ice spikes.) But, oh no, it contained no filters for my camera. Ach. They must have been left in the boot of the car. I’d have to take lots of shorter shots and stack them together later for a single long exposure. Sigh.

From this point on, the creek was magic, and I took lots of photos and enjoyed the green beaches, and the feel of the forest. I was also starving, so got out some food, but discovered that the water was so cold it hurt to drink, and lowered my core temperature drastically and almost instantaneously. I couldn’t afford that, so opted to go thirsty.

Now, quite apart from skating on ice, losing the track early on, being held up by tree bandits, forgetting my filters and not being able to drink the plentiful water that surrounded me, I began to have problems with the sun. Right up until when I got out my camera, it had been snowing lightly. The minute I pointed it at water and took the lens cap off, the wretched sun came out and would not go away! Grr. Meanwhile, thirst was getting to me. I decided ginger chocolates would help. I opened the packet (which resisted my attempts at first) and whoosh, little brown bombs flew everywhere. They were subtly disguised on the brown humus, but I did retrieve some. Na ja. The beauty overcame all. I obviously need to return on a day that is more consistently overcast, and with my filters.

I had squandered too much time playing with all the different drops and falls to then do the full circuit, so did my own much smaller one on the rebound.
If Horeb Falls were not already named, I would call them Glory Glory Glory. I spent about an hour and a half playing around their presence. You are no longer in “time” in a place like that. You lose yourself. The world stops … or maybe you just step off it.
Another waterfall you may want to visit in conjunction with this one is Meribah Falls, about 1.5 kms upstream. See my separate blog on this waterfall
http://www.natureloverswalks.com/meribah-falls/

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Twin Spires 2017 Nov

Twin Spires Nov 2017


Twin Spires as seen from Cathedral Mountain.
The mountain called Twin Spires is right next door to Cathedral Mountain, and it would thus be pretty odd to climb one without the other. Twin Spires is the Abel, so I guess if you only had time for one, it would be the one you’d do. I am biased, as I camped on Cathedral and enjoyed the golden hours of sunrise and sunset there, so prefer those views, but Twin Spires was still a very wonderful peak. It is just a fraction less in the thick of the drama than its friend. It does have a tarn very near the summit, so would be worth seeing if it had great views for sunrise at some later date.

For general directions on how to get here, see the post on Cathedral Mountain (www.natureloverswalks.com/cathedral-mountain/). I have reposted the map below.

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Cathedral Mountain 2017 Nov

Cathedral Mountain Nov 2017

I have wanted to sleep on Cathedral Mountain for years, and am very pleased to have done it, and yet my venture caused me to question the assumed power of the wilderness to heal our sorrows and / or our soul.
Can wilderness do this? The wilderness presents to us infinite sublimity that we can use to transport our being outwards to the universe, but it is not a force with a mind. It can only heal us if we let it, and allow that infinitude to bring us peace.
Wilderness exists as an objective and real part of our environment, indeed, but the value of that thing and its meaning for us depends on what we bring to it. For the wilderness to offer me healing, I need to meet it half way, as it were, and permit the expectations and connotations I give it to do their  work. I need to lose myself in that beauty – to allow it to overwhelm me so I can lose myself. On the weekend, I could perceive the wondrous sublimity, I loved my little tarn and my magic view, but I still felt empty. I couldn’t lose myself at all or join a wider universe. I was stuck in my own misery.

A long time ago, back when I was an international athlete, I thought that nature had the power to completely satisfy me. I remember clearly the day that debunked this theory: I sat on a rock up very high above the dramatic and impressive Aletschgletcher and looked out at infinite space. This was the quintessence of sublimity, and yet all I wanted at that moment was to have Bruce beside me, sharing that magnificence – not necessarily saying anything at all, just being there, sharing. And so I realised that it is not nature per se, but nature in the context of meaningful relationships that I find to be so wonderful.

And so it is hardly surprising that there, on top of Cathedral Mountain last weekend, witnessing a beautiful display of, first, a golden sunset and, next morning, a thrilling sunrise with pink mountains above white cottonball fluff, I felt far less moved by nature’s wonder than is normally the case. I have lost half of who I am, the person who defined how I saw myself for most of my life and who helped mould who I became; the person who gave me incredible freedom by granting me his love.

In seeing our relationships as the most important aspect of our lives, I am hardly alone. I am reminded of Goethe’s Faust, who sought fulfilment in a variety of sources (learning, magic, nature and more) and yet, who found it in the simplest of solutions: in the love of Gretchen. In a similar yet very different vein, C.S. Lewis whose whole life revolved around reading and writing, found no solace after his wife’s death in the act of reading. Our relationships are like a taste-enhancer, lending flavour and zang to anything we devour. Lose a meaningful relationship, and everything becomes bland and uninteresting. The view from on top of Cathedral Mountain was hardly bland or uninteresting, but, for once, it could not pull me wholly out of myself and give me that enjoyable feeling of merging with nature I so often enjoy on a summit. I am fighting to retain my self in the presence of huge forces; it is hardly surprising that I can’t give to nature right now. And if I can’t give, then neither, of course, can I receive.


And so And so it was that with the deep sorrow of losing Bruce operating below the surface of everything I do, the extreme beauty of Cathedral Mountain, although it moved me, failed to heal my sorrow or to transport me to infinite places where I could feel soothed. Not now.


Only family and close people can soothe me right now. Later, things will change. I am still glad I went.

 The problem, I guess, is that in the past, when up a mountain, even when solo, my solitude has occurred within the wider context of a waiting Bruce at home, who would be pleased to see me on my return, would want to hear stories of my adventures and to share in my photos.
The great poet, John Donne, used the image of a protractor to describe how it was between him and his wife: one partner stayed at the centre while the other one roamed; both were joined while apparently separated. This is also a fitting image to describe the way it was for us. I climbed while Bruce stayed at home, joined in spirit whilst prevented physically by his illness. I guess you could say I was only ever carrying out a pretended solo. Now, for the first time, my summits are truly alone.

But you, lucky reader, can presumably visit this wonderful summit without these cares, and the majesty will have more power to impress you. Getting to the top involves a combination of track following and navigation. A rough (and not always distinct) path leads from the carpark at the end of the Lake Rowallan Road to the beautiful Grail Falls, after which a cairned route takes over, getting you as far as Tent Tarn. If you are not a confident navigator, you should stop here (or even earlier, by one of the other beautiful lakes). From Tent Tarn to the top, there is a route which is cairned, but the cairns are not always as close together as you might like and you do need to know what you’re doing in between their guidance. You need to be happy about branching out and not caring if you don’t find any more cairns today. (For the climb of the next day, Twin Spires, see separate post,viz:
www.natureloverswalks.com/twin-spires/).