Mt Rufus | Natureloverswalks

November 14, 2022

Rufus revisited

My bush buddy Andrew wanted to summit Mt Rufus to add to his Abel collection, and I wanted to sleep up there to test out a new snow tent I’d bought that is free standing. It was a deal.

Popping in to inspect the Gingerbread Hut

Andrew would also give his own snow tent a bit of a workout. It’s good to make sure you’ve got the routine in order at least once a year. The fact that it was actually snowing a bit on that day made it all a bit more realistic as we climbed. There was a slight problem in that the whole mountain was several inches under water. Who feels like camping in the middle of a lake? Hm.

Exciting, expansive vistas … but it was very atmospheric (albeit cold).

I had camped up on Rufus in 2014 (http://www.natureloverswalks.com/mt-rufus/ ) for possibly the equal coldest night of my life, but wanted to do it again to update my photos … hopefully improve on them. Unfortunately, the weather was gloomy, grey, and full of moisture, and the wind howled menacingly.

It was neither an evening nor a morning to tempt me to any photography, so I need to try again. I am beginning to think that if I lug my tripod up a mountain to photograph the dawn, then that almost guarantees mist and a grey start and end to the time up there.

So, I can’t offer you glorious or even half-interesting evening or dawn scenes. However, the journey was still fun, and above are a few hints at the whole.
The first time I climbed I used the longer track which goes past Shadow Lake. The last two times, I have used the Gingerbread route.

Back down the bottom the next day, the Navarre River was pumping. Last time I was up there, I visited several waterfalls high up
(http://www.natureloverswalks.com/rufus-and-navarre-falls/),
and we had toyed with seeing them on the way down, but the weather convinced us that we’d rather just make straight for the exit. We were looking forward to coffee and pies from the Hungry Wombat.

December 11, 2019December 11, 2019

Rufus and Navarre Falls

Rufus and Navarre Falls, Dec 2019

Off I set: my goal being mysterious blue lines on the map, lying on the flanks of Mt Rufus, on tributaries that would eventually flow into mighty rivers. Now, when you set out bushbashing in quest of a blue line on a map, you have no idea (i) whether there will actually be a waterfall at the end of your rainbow, and (ii), whether it will have been worth the effort in time, energy, petrol and scratches. Thus I have (in the past) been the questionably proud discoverer of Dry Falls and Trickle Falls, to name but two of my findings. Funnily, no one has been very excited about these, even though my documentation has, at the very least, told them what’s there and informed them that it’s probably not worth their while adding that to their list of immediately pressing activities.

HOWEVER, Sunday’s journey through knee-deep mud and then thigh-deep snow with shoulder-high scoparia thrown in – and a few magic, primaeval pencil-pine grovelets with brief sections of alpine grass – (plus one tiger snake), a journey that took seven and a quarter hours in total, was absolutely Worth The Effort. I could have called the falls Wonder Falls, Speechless Falls, Gaze or Delight Falls; however, even these names diminish them somehow, reducing the spiritual experience of being there to one aspect of the experience.

They need a name that will impart a sense of their particular place set in wilderness, a name that reaches out not in, and I think an aboriginal name is what they deserve, as it will add its own mystique, just as does the name Leeawuleena, lying not far away, “sleeping waters” … how beautiful. I have wasted hours trawling the web for a Tasmanian aboriginal dictionary, or for place names that could be vaguely related to the area, but my net remains empty. For now, English monikers will have to do: Rufus Falls, and Navarre Falls Upper and Lower. Although Rufus was a Roman poet of antiquity, whose poems none of us have heard of, and whose only claim to fame was that he was a friend of Virgil (is that not clutching at straws???), at least the name “Rufus” suggests to us Taswegians an area of wilderness with a certain feel to it. And Navarre is a former kingdom of SW Europe, established in the 9th century by the Basques. What has that got to do with us??????

Up there near the waterfalls, the views are expansive, looking out at Mt Gell, King William I, Pitt and Mulligan, and then Slatters Peak, and the King William Range, with Frenchmans Cap thrown in, and that’s before I begin to name the ones further to the south. On this day, all were decked in snow. For me, all these are old friends and I love seeing them. Gleaming and sparkling in the distance far below us was Lake King William.

It was not a fluke that this journey was undertaken with white peaks all around, and snow covering the route. I had been watching the weather maps very carefully, and chose accordingly. This was exactly what I had ordered, and I revelled in it.

I had brought along a friend who, I knew, would appreciate being there. She had never been in real wilderness before, and was floating with delight. We giggled our way through the snow drifts, which are actually quite hard work, forcing you to lift your legs very high each step, after which you’d sink to an unknown depth, depending on what lay underneath. And then, I kind of squealed with delight, for there was a real waterfall, and it was beautiful: an attractive drop of maybe ten metres of delicate white, attended by deep clumps of pristine snow, pandanis (richea pandanifolia), with a few pencil pines, and Pherosphaera hookeriana for colour, texture and form variety. It was set in a small sandstone, cliffy amphitheatre, with striations of warm hues. We photographed from the west and the east, from above, the side and below. It was fun.

Even so, I thought that my friend, unaccustomed to all I was doing, might have had enough, or been very tired by the physical effort of getting there, so I offered her the choice of turning around at this stage. To my excitement, she said she’d like to see the other two falls I had in mind. I pointed to where I expected them to lie, gave her a pessimistic time estimation and reminded her that there might nothing there (I hate overly positive promises; I would never make a politician), but still she agreed. Yippee. Off we set.

On this section, the snow was more of a challenge, with some very steep drops, and drifts of unknown depth to contend with. However, the final spur was sheer pleasure. Again I sort of squealed with shock and delight when I looked over the edge and saw what we had found. And just below, the water dropped yet again to another hidden treasure. Meanwhile, the cliffs on the way, and in the region of these falls, were marvellous in their own right. We were in heaven. We angled around to the side to inspect and photograph both, and then climbed back up for a snack beside the river and a relax, imbibing mountains, lakes and beauty, before beginning our reluctant journey homewards. Just to show off, I sent friends pictures of the frozen tarn where we also spent some time. Most of Australia is on fire at present. How amazing and fortunate to be in the snow!

Beautiful frozen tarns begged us to linger.

My friend’s shoes were sopping, and her feet numb, parts of her were no doubt scratched, but still she was in love with being in the wilderness. Both of us felt our souls had been expanded and nurtured by being in this place.
If you think you know how to get these falls, will you kindly respect people who love their wilderness wild, and leave no plastic tape and no cairns. Let others feel the total freedom we felt in this place.

June 14, 2014July 28, 2018

Rufus 2014 Icy sleepover. Jun

Mt Rufus and my coldest tent night ever. June 2014.

The morning of my climb, Here is Rufus as seen from King William 1 earlier in the day. Should I climb her?

It was the depths of winter, and I was out and about solo.
I decided to camp on Mt Rufus and see what sunset and dawn were like from up there. I like sleeping on summits. I chose the Gingerbread track as my route.
All went well as I made height, until, just short of the summit, I came to a dramatic halt, and the first of many slides backwards. The top was now tantalisingly close, but every attempt to gain more height was met with a backwards skate which even wild clutching at green matter could not avert. There are two small huts on this approach to Rufus, and I had inspected both en passant while climbing. However, there was no way I was staying in either. Among the many objections (dust, gloom) was the main one, viz., that one little bod could never generate enough personal warmth to heat a hut. Much better to sleep in my tent, and to pitch it very quickly. I was rather alarmed at how speedily and suddenly everything was now freezing up. The whole mountain seemed to have instantaneously turned to ice. It was 4.40. Retreat to the bottom was not in question. I had to find something relatively flat and get the tent up, pronto, before my fingers froze to numb incapacity.

Closer shot of Rufus calling from afar.

I worked quickly, trying to feed the pole into its slot, and sighing with relief when I heard the final click that meant the ends were now in their rightful positions. With light now waning, I decided that the next important job was to cook. I didn’t want to use the vestibule and create a condensation problem, so felt very brave and cooked outside. First a cup of soup. While I drank it, enjoying warming my hands around the mug’s circumpherence, I noticed with alarm the way ice crystals were forming on both my gaiters and boots, climbing, as I watched, like a march of white ants up my legs. The tent flaps were also icing over as I drank. Quick. Cook main course too before you need to retreat inside. Dessert (chocolate, nuts and honey) could be had in my bag, later.

Climbing Rufus now

By 6 pm, I was inside, everything arranged for the night. I’d brought in a bottle of water and placed it under my sleeping bag so I’d have flowing drinking water in the morning when all creeks would be frozen. I placed another cup of water just outside, in the vestibule, about 20 cms away from me, so my body warmth would hopefully prevent it from solidifying. (I didn’t have it inside in case I knocked it over). I didn’t want frozen boots, so brought my boots and gaiters inside and placed them under the bottom edge of my sleeping bag (which is too long for me, so protects items like that).

To bed, I wore 2 icebreakers, an O top, a fleece jacket, an Arcteryx thick jacket with hood up, possum gloves, helly long johns, O pants, lined outer pants, and 2 pairs of thick woollen socks, all inside my down bag which is good to minus five degrees. Underneath, I had a thick sleeping mat, and beneath that, a layer of carpet underlay. Then I tucked the end of my sleeping bag into one of my goretex jackets to protect the bag from moisture dropping from above (should the ice somehow melt), and another goretex jacket over my shoulders and upper torso. Over the middle section of my body, I placed my other down jacket. I was, you might say, well rugged up for this night … yet I was still cold.

I thus embarked on a multi-hour exercise programme designed to keep me alive. Whenever I stopped, I could feel the cold creeping into my core, so began again. Mostly, I did bicycles, sometimes “Worms” – a kind of wave or serpentine writhing. Other times I did crunches and sit ups, and at yet others, went through a series of exercises our national coach once taught us, where we isolated each muscle in the body, and practised contracting and then relaxing it. His emphasis was on learning to relax; mine was on movement of every muscle to try to generate warmth and keep my metabolic rate at survival level. I kept all this up without looking at my watch, as a watched watch never progresses.

At 10 pm, however, I indulged in a peek. I was happy. Five hours down, nine to go. Over a third of the way there. Next peep was at midnight. Seven down, seven to go. Hey, I’ve survived half this night, I can do the other half.

At 1 a.m., however, doubt crept in. My toes were getting numb, the backs of my hands were hurting, and I had developed a headache. When I sat up, I had to prise my now frozen hood from the also frozen tent flap, to which it had stuck in an unbroken stalactite. I noticed that the cup of water 20 cms from my body was a solid frozen block: not just iced over, solid. I remembered at this point that the worst was yet to come, that the coldest hour of any night is one hour before dawn, which meant there were five more hours in which it would get even colder. Could I keep up five hours more of this? I wasn’t fatiguing yet, but feared I might at some point in the future. At this juncture, I had a little midnight feast, not because I was hungry, but because eating raises your metabolism. Down went more chocolate and nuts, and some dried mango for variety.

Believe it or not, I never posed the question: “What am I doing here?”, as I knew the answer. However, I did hear other imaginary people asking me, and while I lay there, I answered them. I explained that however much I enjoy contemplation – reflecting the sapiens part of my species’ name – I was also of the genus homo, order primates, member of the animal kingdom, and want to be allowed to be part of nature – and nature, is, by definition wild, not tamed by the pusillanimous and rapacious desires of bureaucrats and politicians.
Like Roger Deakin or Robert Macfarlane, whose books I greatly enjoy, as much as I enjoy culture – fine wine, theatre, restaurants, artwork, musical concerts – I also want to be part of the Wild, to be truly free. I do not want to be a member of our Brave New World of cosseted, somatised and compliant beings. I want to live, truly live, which means to know extremes. Here I was, experiencing a variety of the fury of nature, being wild and truly free.

I was worried about falling asleep, as I know that to fall asleep under certain conditions of hypothermia is to die, and that one must keep moving. I thought of the Jews who scored outer layers in the vans heading for Auschwitz, who died overnight. Penguins take turns at taking the outside, but not these prisoners, it seems. I thought of the Germans retreating from Russia, many of whom just lay down to die in the snow. I thought of the gutsy Russian survivors of Hitler’s siege of Leningrad, who, despite having almost no food or warmth during Hitler’s long cutting of supplies and energy to their city, nonetheless managed to endure much harsher conditions than I was now experiencing. I thought of how I’ve trained in Sweden when it was minus 15. The key is to keep moving. And I thought of my athlete friend from Austria, Gudrun Pfluger, four times world champion in my sport, who has run with wolves in Canadian forests, tracking and observing them in order to help save them. She must have withstood nights much worse than this. And while I thought, I cycled and continued my regime.

My cup-iceblock after I’d melted out its innards

Somewhere in all that thinking, I did the unthinkable: I dozed off. The next thing I knew it was light, 7.15 in the morning. I had survived. I opened my flap to a bright red north-western sky. High above, I could see cirrostratus clouds, heralding a change – a warm front. Perhaps that front is the reason it didn’t get any colder so that I could fall asleep in safety. My boots under my sleeping bag were frozen solid, and it was very difficult to force my feet into the steel frames they now seemed to be. My gaiters, too, also stored under my bag you’ll remember, were sheets of resistant metal that didn’t want to bend around my legs. I pushed and shoved and grunted and got there. Out I went to inspect the dawn (the beauty of which is depicted in the photos above).

At breakfast, porridge was fine, but I couldn’t have my next course – coffee, biscuits and honey – as my cup had this frozen block in it that wouldn’t budge. I put the mug in boiling water for a few minutes, but it still didn’t melt the ice. Then I poured boiling water on it, and that managed to dislodge it, melting the middle section, so I could tip it out.

Down near the bottom

As I descended later – in the bush, as the track was just a ribbon of black ice – I waited to drop below the freezing line, but it never happened. 600 metres below my camping spot, the world was still white. My guess is that it could have been colder than minus ten up there.

My car was enveloped in white crystals, but it worked. Off to the Hungry Wombat I went. I was alive, and aware of it in a completely new way. Every cell in my body was tingling with it, and it felt very, very good. I was positively bursting with the joy of the gift of life.

It’s the heart afraid of breaking

That never learns to dance.

It’s the dream afraid of waking

That never takes the chance.

It’s the one who won’t be taken

Who cannot seem to give;

And the soul afraid of dying

That never learns to live. (The Rose)

January 6, 2013October 1, 2018

Hugel, Little Hugel, Rufus 2013 Jan

Mt Hugel, Little Hugel and Mt Rufus 5-6 Jan 2013

Friends expressed concern as I set off for the bush. This was a weekend of huge and dangerous fires in Tasmania, and they were worried about my safety (and, possibly, my sanity). As it turned out, however, I had the best weekend imaginable, and part of that is due to the fires.

Our original plan was to climb Mt Field West, a mountain I have already summited, but a long time ago, and without a decent camera, so here I was to climb it again.

After many hours’ driving, we discovered we couldn’t get through to the Mt Field National Park, or beyond it to our plan-B mountains. We virtually came face to face with the fire, burning just across the river from us, and we feared for our safety should the wind pick up while we were sleeping, so I turned around and drove some more, back to New Norfolk. It was just off midnight by this stage, and I was exhausted. We didn’t have a clue where to sleep, and the residents were still rushing around everywhere attending to fires, so we just parked the car by the river, and lay down to sleep under the stars.

No one slept well. Cars and utes and trucks roared up and down the road for many hours. When they finished, the mosies decided it was safe to come out, and danced and sang around our heads, screaming with their high-pitched little sirens. After that, I decided I was a little cold, so went to get some clothing and my good down bag (I had just bunked down in my silk sheet). It was now about 3.30 or so. Not too long after that, the light doze that I’d drifted into was disturbed by some drops of rain. I went off, got the tent poles out of the car and put them in their sockets to pitch the tent. However, the ground was so hard I couldn’t drive the pegs in at all, so gave up. Bruce then went back to sleep on the tent carcass. It was now about 4.30. I decided to ‘sleep’ in the car as it might rain again and I didn’t want to wet my good sleeping bag. I curled up on the driver’s seat, and actually fell asleep properly for the first time that night. I slept until the sound of the others talking at 6 a.m. woke me. We breakfasted and were away nice and early to try our luck in the (Mt Field) National Park. The weather had cooled; the wind was westerly. Things should be OK.

The sign greeting us as we arrived at the park said it was closed until 9 a.m., so we decided to go in anyway and visit some of the waterfalls not too far from the entrance while we waited to be allowed to do our real walking – we did a nice balance of walking and photographing, walking nearly 1½ hours. Back at the centre, they said the park was closed, and that we couldn’t go to most of the other places in southern Tassie we had thought of as alternatives due to other fires. We settled for one of the walks I had suggested as soon as I knew fires were a problem, and off we set for Lake St Clair, still not knowing if we could get through to there, as a fire lay in between it and us.

View from a tarn between Little Hugel and its parent

It was therefore midday as we at last approached our destination. Now we were hungry, so had a quick bite of pies before beginning. I had now done 6½ hours’ driving, and we hadn’t yet started walking.

At last we were off, and after 1¼ hours walking through lush rainforest, and another snack by a beautiful little lake, we were in position to start climbing our first mountain. It nearly didn’t happen, however, as seen by the following conversation:

A-M (our coordinator): Where will we set up camp tonight?

D: Whichever place is easiest.

Me: It’s easiest to stay at home.

A-M: Yes, D, much easier to stay at home.

Me: I haven’t driven six and a half hours (and still counting) to go for a grandmother-stroll in the bush and camp at the easiest spot, D.
Fortunately, D lost and the rest of us won, and off we set up Little Hugel, to climb it and spend the night at a tarn up there.

The views from the top of Little Hugel were excellent, and from there we could see where we’d elected to pitch camp for the night – a tarn lying on the ridgeline off to the north. It didn’t take long to reach it.

After dinner I wanted to climb a nearby ridge to get photos. A-M was coming too; nice. D and a third guy were exhausted, and Bruce had already turned in, fully spent after a bad night and what turned out to be a good amount of walking and climbing. I said “Good night gentlemen” en passant, as I wanted to climb quickly so as not to miss the best light. Oh no. They wanted to come. I was in no mood to have done all that driving and have my chance of photography ruined by the slowness of others.

Photography is a sacred and solo business at times like that. Anyway, I achieved a compromise between dashing ahead and waiting – sort of darting to where I could at least get a good view, waiting for them a bit, dashing some more. The sunset was stupendous, mesmerising, and after that I felt complete and at peace … until D produced his mobile phone and ruined our connection with sublimity with his booming voice reducing the infinite to a series of reified verbal descriptions. I scolded: “You don’t have to cover the distance by sheer lungpower, D.” The others laughed.
“Don’t describe it over the phone, just show him a picture”, added Mi. He totally stole the magic with his verbal intrusion into the world of ineffable beauty.

Next morning we agreed that A-M would wake us at 6 a.m. for an early attack on our next mountain. This one was packless, so the pace was good. Also, D elected to stay in bed. The light was golden; everything was sparkling and wonderful as we set out. We moved well, and it was still wonderfully early as we summited.
Back at camp we reunited with D, who was also content, as he’d seen lots of lovely birdies, and even had a little dip in the tarn. We lazed around the tents having breaky number two, chatting, and soaking in the glory before we left it.

The last mountain, Rufus, was less exciting, climbed in the glare of the middle of the day, never the best conditions. It was still enjoyable, though, and there were lovely flowers near the summit.
On the descent we ran into a slight problem, however, as Mi ground to a near halt. We had now been underway for over 10 hours, and this was his first overnight bushwalk, so he was being sorely tested. I had thought to myself that his breakfast and lunch were both inadequate, so was not surprised to see him flailing a bit. A-M summed it up: “Mi’s hit the wall.” We discussed possible courses of action. She hoped she could persuade him to go faster with the promise of a pub meal at the end. Our worry was that the pub stopped taking orders at 7.45, and we did not look like making it by then. With perfect nonchalance, D contributed to the discussion with the comment: “My mother will have a meal waiting for me when I get home” – so, food didn’t matter to him. I said: “My mother won’t, and I have many hours yet to drive. I want food.” Problem – I didn’t believe going faster was in Mi’s present range of behaviour. A-M and I plied him with lollies, bickies, nuts and anything we could find, spoke to him about pub closure and set off. A-M was right and I was wrong, I am pleased to say. Motivated by the threat of no dinner, he rushed through the remaining 1¾ hours of forest, with the rest of us in pursuit. I then sped the 5k from the end of the track to the pub in the car (without D who was still in the bush – I went back to get him after 20 mins or so), to order before they closed, arriving at 7.46 – but they let us give orders anyway. Dinner after such a day – 12½ hours on the track – was a TREAT.

Even the way home was great. There were hundreds of gorgeous animals on the road. I haven’t seen black spotted quolls ever; haven’t seen brown ones since 1992; haven’t seen a live, wild devil since the 80’s. They were all there, along with an array of paddymelons, wallabies and possums, all holding meetings in the middle of the road, or just crossing. It was a slow trip, but I didn’t hit one single animal – quite an achievement, I felt. After two hours’ driving, A-M took over for me. I had really had it. While she drove I tried to talk to her to help keep her awake, but kept falling asleep. Sometimes I woke up to hear myself talking. I have no idea what nonsense I was prating. I’ll have to ask her some time.

So, that was the best possible weekend – wonderful scenery, with nice people. It’s just such a privilege to sit up high at the start and close of a day, eating with your friends and staring out at magnificent scenery. Bring on the next trip.

Post script. I write this p.s. after Bruce’s disappearance and death. Anne-Marie was in the forest searching with so many others for the beloved man we couldn’t find. In between crying and sorrow, we found moments of shared laughter, as laughter and tears bind bushwalking groups together. This trip was one of the points of laughter during those sad few days of searching.