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Vera Creek Falls, Frenchmans Cap

Vera Creek Falls, Frenchmans Cap 2019 Mar

Vera Creek Falls 6.

Vera Creek Falls were not initially the object of our bushwalk. It was my birthday, and my daughter had taken the day off work and tossed in the weekend to climb a mountain with me. The trouble was, the rain was howling more fiercely than the wind, and my daughter had hurt her knee two weeks before doing a race in NSW called the Six Foot Track, which is so gruelling that her runs up Mt Wellington seemed nugatory as practice. Camping on Baron Pass for night number one was pruned back to limping into Vera Hut just as darkness was beginning to require a head torch if we’d been out any longer. (In case you think she was REALLY injured, I’d better add that we didn’t get started until 3pm.) I’d watched the limp develop early on, during the very first climb, and worsen with each successive slope. One thing at a time, but things did not bode well for the morrow.

Hygrocybe roseoflavida

Now, as adumbrated, we were sopping wet by the time we descended the final drop into the hut, and had been discussing how very nice it would be if someone else just happened to be in the hut, and if they also just happened to have the fire lit. Sigh. Dream on. “Hey mum, I see a light,” Kirsten exclaimed. “Oh wow. Do you think they know how to light a fire?”

Vera Creek Falls 4

We opened the door and peeped around the corner, but we didn’t need to ask our question. The magnificent warmth of the glowing stove greeted us, as did the welcome smiles of seven or … was it nine?… happy faces. While we dumped our sodden packs and pulled out our sleeping bags and dry clothes, these guys pampered us by collecting water from the tank outside and hanging up my horrid lumps of fabric (I am too small to reach the pegs). We chatted convivially while we eventually ate our dinner, and had good fun together.


Kirsten was not in a rush next morning, and I figured we had little chance of summitting considering the state of her knee and the rather appalling weather out the door, so we took things gently, both in terms of departure time and pace. I have never wandered through this forest at such a relaxed speed, and it gave us both time to enjoy all the aborning fungi more thoroughly. There is nothing like rainforest in the rain. Every leaf glistened. The moss was spongy and thick. And as for Vera Creek, it wanted to challenge Niagara. Even the track was a waterfall worthy of photos. We sloshed and admired. I didn’t take too many photos on the way up – just enough to be happy but allow me to catch up in between shots.

Vera Creek Falls 2

It was late morning by the time we reached Baron Pass. The sky was black ahead. Thick clouds obscured all mountains. And yet, the sun shone in a tiny circle that happened to contain us. Always being a little hungry, I suggested an early lunch during the lull between downpours, and I was so glad I did. By the time we’d finished, it was deluging again, and we decided to head for base and skip the idea of a mountain. Back we went, with far more photography this time, slosh slosh, all the way to the hut, where we read and did some exercises to stay warm, ate more and then it was time for dinner. Kirsten lit the fire while I cooked, and all was cosy for the other four walkers who opened the door.


The way out was uneventful: more fungi, more water, more rain, and more good luck when it came to my need for snacking, in that the rain stopped briefly to give us a respite, and then made up for its gentillesse once our packs were back on. Luckily we both think that rainforest in the rain is a real treat.
Can you believe that on the way out, we met another mother and offspring combo celebrating a birthday by having three days in the same area? Fynn and his mum from Western Australia were there for his twentieth birthday. We gave each other a high-five before parting in our opposite directions. It’s nice to know that someone else knows abut perfect birthday presents.
Waterfall aficionados, note: there were at least six falls on this creek that were worth photographing, some of which are shown here. Others were not photographed, as they would have involved my spoiling beautiful forest to get a good line, so I just admired them and left them alone. Others had too much clutter to be photogenic. This selection will suffice.
And thanks to Terry Reid for all the interesting historical material to read that is there in the hut to help while away some time waiting for the next meal.

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Philps Peak 2017 Mar


The story of Philps Peak begins as Day 4 of our Clytemnestra trip (http://www.natureloverswalks.com/clytemnestra/). On day 3, we had planned to climb to a beautiful spot near the summit of Agamemnon, but, most uncharacteristically for me, I had argued that the day was so stinking hot that it would take us hours to lug our packs up there, and that there would be no water for a day and a half if we went there, so we’d be better camping at the hut (Vera) and doing the climb as a day walk on the morrow. Angela agreed, but not with enthusiasm.


This little cairn marks the top of the first chute one climbs up on the way to the first hop, Agamemnon.
We chose a really beautiful camping spot – that is, the scenery was nothing particularly special, but the spot was secluded, set in forest with enough shade to cool but not enough to be dark. Birds and paddymelons visited us. It was just a very, very peaceful afternoon. Past ranger, Terry Reid, had donated a few bushwalking magazines to the hut, so I browsed through them, sitting in the forest on one of the many log-seats available, and organised my pack for the next day and chatted to the new people who later arrived at the hut and came past our idyll on their way to have a swim. I also had a lovely walk going back to the stream where I had noted that there was a waterfall that could perhaps be reached with a tiny bit of an offtrack detour. I was joined in this by new friend, Kent from Queensland, who also liked waterfalls and fungi.


We call these rocks The Four Ugly Sisters. They lack a name on the map. One heads to the left of them on the approach side.
On summit day, we set out nice and early to get in as much distance as possible before the real heat dominated the day. The light was superb, and we had about two hours where the air felt fresh and the light was clear before heat and glare took control. This means we got to the summit of Agamemnon – and even beyond, to where you first have to lose some height – in pleasant conditions.


Summit view. That’s Frenchmans Cap and Clytemnestra (far left) dominating the scene.
In between Agamemnon and Philps, in a saddle before you climb up onto the main ridge that leads to Philps, we found a truly nasty bit of scrub, where the forest was dense and unbendable and a pain to get through. At least the scoparia wasn’t scratchy (too tall for that), but it sure resisted our attempts to push out to the other side. This hiccup didn’t last too long, however, and we have both endured much worse than that, so it hardly marred the day irrevocably, even it did detract from perfection. There must be a nicer way through that stuff, but we didn’t find it in either direction. It occupied maybe thirty minutes of our time each way (guesstimate – I didn’t look at my watch; it felt like that amount of time, but maybe it was less).


Frenchmans Cap in all its glory from Philps. What a grand hunk of rock.
Once we’d negotiated that obstacle, there were no more difficulties. We climbed up a chute to the high ground of the final ridge, and walked along its pleasantly open line to the final summit climb, which was not challenging. The sun was right in my eyes every time I looked up to try to see where the best line might be. That was perhaps the most difficult thing we encountered.


Forest next day on the way out.
On top, the view was amazing. I couldn’t believe how far visibility extended. There was Barn Bluff, days and days away, and Ossa, Pelion West and East, High Dome, Byron, Cuvier, Olympus. So many mountains normally not seen together, separated by many days walking if you are on foot. It was grand.
We tried for a better line through the junk on the way back (of course), but I think this one was even worse. I got so entrenched in scoparia limbs that I had to take my pack off and push it along the ground in front of me while I crawled under the unbendable tangle of wood. I thought for a tiny while that maybe I was going to spend the rest of my shortened life right here. No direction offered the possibility of movement.


Yes, a few courageous (or ignorant / mistaken) fungi are out already, having heard that it’s autumn and not being aware that summer has just arrived.
Apart from that insult, the way home was uneventful. I was looking forward to a swim (yes, this is Louise writing) and ridding myself of these stinking clothes full of forest debris that had fallen down my neck as I tried to push a path through the bosky barricade. In the end, of course, I wussed out. I sat beside the little beach in my undies, staring at the cool waters, but letting the gentle breeze that caressed my bare skin do the job of cooling me down in the dense shade of that spot. It felt like a swim, but didn’t have the inconvenience of wet gear.