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Bayeux Bluff 2018 Mar

Bayeux Bluff, Mar 2018


When we set out in thick fog in a general southerly direction, we were not at all committed to reaching Bayeux Bluff. We made our goals simpler, and said we’d at least go to Battle Ridge’s end, perhaps Odo Tarn. We’d probably then run out of time, as the fog had meant our start was later than we’d originally planned for.


Battle Ridge shots
However, from the end of Battle Ridge. with the swirling fog so very alluring, and the going so utterly pleasant, the group decided to reach our earlier goal. I was off photographing to the side when this decision was made, and jokingly abused them for not giving me a vote, but they claimed to know my wishes on this matter without asking, and off we set. Of course, they were right. As said in my earlier blog on this walk, my only regret concerning this day was not having time to also climb Norman Bluff. Doomsday Bluff would have also been a nice addition to the agenda. They’ll be there for my return visit.
(www.ntureloverswalks.com/king-william-circuit/ )


Odo Tarn babies


Bayeux Bluff area to Lake Eva and Guelph Basin
I was glad about the fog: it leant a certain charm to the scenery that one of those sunny days just can’t match. The whole day seems wonderful to me as I look back on it – the whole weekend does. I can’t understand these scoffers of club walking. My credentials are proof that I don’t need a club to help me navigate or get through the bush. Those two factors are only a small part of the whole bushwalking experience. Camaraderie with likeminded people out-trumps (sorry to use that word, which has now taken on very negative connotations) other factors. Yes, I also like the solitude one can have in the wilderness, but you can get that, too. A mixture is great. The scoffers, I note, almost always go bush with friends, so it’s merely a matter of how you define your company. I feel it’s being elitist if you happen to have a group of good and willing friends with whom you can always go bush when you want to, to scoff at those whose circle of friends is somewhat different. Clubs like LWC, HWC and Pandani contribute hugely to the well being of the broader community, in both physical and mental aspects by enriching people’s lives and providing them with access to others who feel the same way as they do about being in the wilderness. I greatly enjoyed the company of my companions on this adventure, and would not have enjoyed it a tenth as much had I been alone. Humans are social creatures, and sharing experience is part of what makes us happy. I love my club friends, and to see them turn out in force to help search for Bruce when it was needed, when we thought we had a chance of saving him, warmed my heart (and our daughters’  hearts) hugely.


On our way back from Bayeux Bluff and Odo Tarn, we laughed together about some of our past shared adventures where things had gone “wrong”. Such is the fodder of tales and merriment for years after the event, and is only possible in a shared context.


The more westerly route is our outward one, as we wanted to follow Battle Ridge. On the return journey, we followed the broad valley up. Both routes were wonderful.

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Cradle Plateau caper 2017 Dec

Cradle Plateau caper 2017 Dec


I feared that the grieving-type depression (innocuous; natural), which I was definitely experiencing, might morph into clinical depression (serious; dangerous) if I didn’t try to jolt myself out of this state of apathy and fainéant behaviour. Everything has seemed so much effort, and socialising has not been what I have wanted – unless it is with a very select few people, mostly ones who helped search for Bruce or who came to his service, ones who understand my grief. I keep telling myself I am going to join in this or that, … but then I back out of it and take the dog walking, or just stay at home. I haven’t been to Pilates once since Bruce disappeared; haven’t been to any club meetings; haven’t even been to film society. I also haven’t done anything but the most basic of dashes into the supermarket.

So. I decided that this week I had to stop being so apathetic and listless, and change, and thought I should partly achieve this by joining a club walk, and I would even try to return to film society. The latter was not such  a good idea, but the club walk (LWC) was wonderful. There were eight of us, my biggest ‘social experience’ so far, but I was kind of cheating, as several in the group had helped search for Bruce, and several had also been to his service, so it was a nice tame “coming out”. All of them welcomed me back into the club circle.

The weather was not nearly as friendly as the people, but that’s fine by me. My own trip to Nereus (a five-day expedition) I had had to cancel (well, postpone)  due to five days of forecasted horror, but I was sure a mere two days of howling wind and rain and no thick bush would be just fine. It was. Perhaps it nearly wasn’t when the wind picked me up in the air and tossed me into a bush. At least it was a bush and not over a cliff. I don’t mind wild nature. There’s something exhilarating about its fury, so long as it doesn’t kill you. Quite often on the Saturday, I had to just stand there, bracing myself against the wind, waiting for “permission” to take the next step – which would occur when this blast took a breath.

We got to our camping spot early in the afternoon, pitched our tents so we’d have a nice home to return to (I snuck some more food in in the interlude), and then we were off again, to climb one named (Artillery) and many nameless Knobs (Knobs one, two and three – how imaginative of us). We had grand vistas with menacing clouds and floating mist. I loved it.

Despite the fairly constant drizzle, we had a lovely protected spot (as in, from the wind), so sat in a circle to cook and eat our dinner under the shelter of an old spreading pencil pine that took some of the droplets for us. Port and chockies helped warm us. Nonetheless, an early departure to bed seemed like a good way to warm up after a while.

Next morning I set my alarm for 5 to photograph the dawn; looked out the tent flap and changed that to 5.30; looked out the tent flap again and just turned the alarm off. I woke again at 6.30. There was still a thick mist, but by now I was feeling guilty about so much time in bed, so got up to inspect my surroundings. I spent a happy hour photographing stormy scenes before I returned for breakfast.

This day we climbed the more imaginatively named (by Steve) Cows Rump, with Loin Tarn (thanks Vanessa) underneath. There were also more unnamed lumps and bumps that we summited and photographed and enjoyed before it was time to wend our way home, ultimately via a coffee shop. Every good bushwalk finishes with coffee and cake. I’m glad I urged myself to get back on my horse before it became too momentous a thing to do.

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Maria 2017 Jun

Mt Maria, 11 June 2017.


On Sunday, Bruce and I joined in the LWC climb of Mt Maria, mainly for sociability reasons, but, as is often the case, subsidiary benefits followed. Now, there are some vocal members within bushwalking circles who are disdainful of walking clubs and people who climb mountains in such groups. Certainly, Sunday’s LWC ascent of Mt Maria could be taken as an example of what happens in a club that seems to rankle these people. Oh. Goss. What happened? Do tell.


Well, what happened was that a guy who has advanced Parkinson’s disease, who could never get up such a mountain unaided (or even with just the help of his wife), stood on the summit; so did a different fellow, aged 74, who has had two hip replacements; and so did a lady rather new to bushwalking who thought she lacked the fitness.


Oh dear. Are clubs full of people like that? No. These people are the beneficiaries of other able-bodied, strong, agile, knowledgeable and extremely helpful and selfless people who see them through moments of difficulty, who also make up the numbers of a club. Without the strong and talented bushpeople in clubs, the less experienced or gifted (in bushcraft) members would not have the opportunity to learn and grow, and to experience for themselves the thrill of a summit, and the sense of achievement gained by standing on the highest point. In a club, a summit is often (although by no means always) a team effort. And the recipients in this context can often be the donors in another.


This is definitely a pull and push job
My husband is the one with Parkinson’s disease. He took every step up the mountain himself; no one carried him as such, and he can say to himself that he climbed this mountain, and feel justifiably proud. However, my pictures of his ascent nearly all have images of other people’s hands: hands from in front in case he needed steadying or a pull; hands from behind or the side to guard against him falling. Mostly, he was unaware of these hands, but I was not. Elitists, is it so very shocking that this man can say he has climbed Mt Maria? (In fact, he is not a peak bagger and wouldn’t bother saying it, but you know the principle I am adumbrating here. )


If Bruce were doomed to only summit what he could get to solo, or what I could get him up, his options would be severely limited, and his life greatly reduced in quality. He used to be a man who could summit all manner of mountains, and to be a leader in bushwalking circles, but then a chemical aberration in his brain changed everything, and now he is reliant on the help of others. I cannot really imagine how it must feel to have once been a proficient and daring mountain man – a teacher of bushcraft – yet now be dependent. Surely the shame is not that he gets up only thanks to the help of others in a club, but that he needs help now at all. He is quite possibly braver now than he ever was when his brain and muscles functioned to their full capacity. How astonishing that he still dares to get up mountains and to “give it a go”. Thanks to the generosity of club members, both in LWC and HWC, he can still sometimes enjoy the activity that once played a prominent role in his life.


Is it not a little selfish to think that the beautiful wild places of this earth are only for a particular kind of elite bush person, who, like a recluse or hermit, does not share his /her skills with those who are learning, or who prefer to climb in company, or who are beyond the age where they are comfortable being alone in the bush?


Clubs are like microcosms of society and, like society at large, are far from perfect. But also like society at large, they teach us to  mix with all types, with those more, and those less, capable than we are, and that is good for us. We learn to tolerate and be tolerated, for however wonderful we may think we are, others may find things in us that demand  understanding and forbearance.  We have things that we bring to the group, but also things that we take from it. If we have stopped learning from others, then we are in a sorry state, and have begun our decline.


Elias Canetti in Masse und Macht wrote about the special power and energy that comes to individuals when they are part of a crowd. This can also operate at club level, where an individual will climb something difficult that they would never climb alone, precisely and only because they gain psychological and physical impetus that comes from the group dynamics. “Crowd energy” can help us to the top of challenging peaks. The presence of others can give us courage that we might not have if alone.


The way back down
And so, I leave you with your own mental image of Bruce in the tricky sections, climbing with a hand outstretched before, and another in readiness behind, yet in a different sense, climbing “all by himself”, just as the trapeze artist performs tricks by herself thanks to the safety net below. I leave you with a beaming man at the end of the day (something very rare for Parkinson’s sufferers), for surely you are never too old or ill to fail to enjoy a sense of accomplishment when you overcome odds and achieve something different. He enjoyed being one of the group, doing what everyone else was doing. I haven’t seen him so content and satisfied in ages, and that feeling came precisely because the mountain was, for him, a demanding challenge, so he was left with the feeling, unusual for a person with his illness, that “I can do”.


Cortinarius tasmamamphoratus. I have never seen these before this trip
He knows the others helped him; he is not arrogant, but he is still allowed, thanks to the group, to feel successful and affirmed. I love solo climbing, duo or trio with friends even better, but I also enjoy being part of a club; I love learning from those more experienced than I am, I enjoy giving back by leading walks in the two clubs where I have that role, and I really love the camaraderie of being with others who share my hobby. I have met some fabulous people in the club context, as it draws those who love my love together so we can meet each other.  I enjoy the little custom of “high-fives” when a club group reaches the summit. No matter how many hands were outstretched, the person still had to do it propelled by his or her own power, but the victory is also a shared one. There are others there with whom we can celebrate the occasion. Mt Maria is not a particularly special mountain for me: it has a track up it, and offers no particular challenges for me, but doing it with Bruce lets me see the mountain in a different way, and to appreciate it from a different perspective, which is healthy.

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Picton 2012 Feb

Mt Picton, Feb 13, 2012.  The first mountain in my peak bagging “career”.
Of course, I didn’t know what peak bagging was at this stage, but this was the first mountain where I consulted the Abels book and steered us up a mountain that didn’t have a track. Much, much later, I would begin ‘collecting’ them. At this stage, I ticked this mountain in the back index: an act that led me down a path on which I wanted a dirty page full of ticks.

 I had decided I wanted to join a walking club so as to get to know likeminded people, but, having a husband who has Parkinson’s disease, I was a bit scared about making this move. Perhaps he would be far too slow and clumsy for a bunch of experts. Maybe I, too, had lost too much fitness to belong in such a group. I phoned the leader and suggested that Bruce and I arrive and climb early, so he couldn’t slow anyone down, and that we’d meet them all at the top of the mountain.

I needn’t have worried, but it was good to be sure. I don’t like putting others out. However, Bruce made it up the quite difficult mountain without disgracing himself or imposing on the good nature or patience of the others. In fact, given the description of the track, and the characteristics of the terrain, his first hour and a half had been exceptional. The ground had been slippery and very steep, muddy in places. Some sections were so steep that there were ropes in place, and the obstacles were many: the “path” was strewn with fallen logs, which were decked in a thick coating of moss and lichen and which had to be climbed over or under or along – each method containing difficulties when carrying a pack, and even more problems when one has Parkinson’s. The final half hour  – just pushing through bauera scrub – was easy for me, but Bruce found it challenging, as he couldn’t see the ground, so lost confidence. We pitched our tent and enjoyed the scenery, and at some stage later, the others arrived, just as we were ready to do the final leg to the summit. We arranged to meet on the very top.

I had never thought it would be at all possible for Bruce to reach the summit trig, and was shocked when he looked up and said he could do it. We ran into trouble near the very top, when the huge boulders formed what seemed like a maze that couldn’t be solved from the inside. In fact, I was making plans about where best to spend the night (there were some rocky caves) as I could get him neither up nor down and the mist was closing in rapidly, when we heard the voices of the others in our party who were now climbing behind us. Encouraged by the fact that hope lay in joining up with them, Bruce found energy and expertise from somewhere, and got over the impasse to reach the base of the final, doable climb. It was fun sitting up the top with club members, chatting, sharing chocolate and watching the mist swirling around the rocky forms surrounding us. We descended as a group, arriving back at base in time to cook a leisurely meal while the sky turned pink, the mountains purple, and the tarns took on an incandescent light in the foreground.


Summit view
It was a cold, dark night following this beautiful sunset. I had hoped that Picton would be a shapely dark presence – like a black hole – in a star-studded silvery sky, but there was too much mist for that. Even so, just being up there surrounded by tiny tarns with the summit so close and the knowledge of the endless ridgelines of other mountains beyond imbued the whole night sky with magic. There is a special feeling created by sleeping up high in one’s tent with friends in their tents nearby. I drifted off into a happy sleep, well content with the day.

We had enjoyed being with the club, but Bruce was very, very slow on the way down, and we were sure we’d never be allowed on any future walks, which we both agreed was a pity. The forest had been superbly magnificent, and it had been fun to share our experience in the bush with others who loved it too. We both felt as if we’ve had a several-week-long holiday, and not just a weekend away.
Driving home I was dangerously exhausted. However, thanks to stops for food in Geevestown and Campbelltown, and a snooze while Bruce bought out a roadside fruit stall, making a life-long friend of the fruiterer (who even gave us a present of a CD he’d made as a parting gift), I made it safely through. We played our new tape, its songs being so lyrical that we sang along with it while I drove. The music remained a happy reminder of a trip that we both now treasure, despite its difficulties.
For a gpx route, see my next post on Picton (2017). I didn’t own a gps for my first couple of years of this new game, but relied on good old map and compass.