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Norman Bluff 2018 Oct

Norman Bluff 31 Oct 2018


Norman Bluff is a pretty perfect daywalk if you are relatively fit and know how to navigate. It involves glorious off-track, yet easy, alpine walking over the tops of Battle Ridge past Mt King William I. Even with the drive from Launceston (as we had) or Hobart, it is attainable. I am lucky enough to have a group of friends who are sensible enough to clear Wednesdays from their work schedules to go to places like Norman Bluff in the middle of the week. Off we set.
Above: King William I view from near the top to Lake George and the Guelph Basin

Guelph Lump, Phil, to Lake George, Guelph Basin, Norman Bluff
Our route took us over Mt King William I (steep climb) and “Guelph Lump” (what else are you supposed to call an interesting looking lump that is just before the beginnings of the Guelph River?) to a lump that I dubbed Deposit Lump (as we “deposited” several from our party there, to be picked up on the rebound) and on to our lunch spot, some delightful alpine tarns just before the climb (minimal) to our goal for the day, Norman Bluff itself.

Climbing to Deposit Bluff, Diane (King William I and Mt Pitt behind)
Norman Bluff was actually, truth be told, a bit of an anticlimax. Das Gehen war das Ziel (The ‘going’ was the goal). Not only was Norman Bluff not the ‘enjoyment highpoint’ of the day, it was also not the physical highpoint. Both King William I and the Battle Ridge Highpoint (visited on the rebound) were higher.

Deposit Bluff to Mt Harold and Milligans Peak. Frenchmans Cap behind left
I am not a lake or tarn bagger. There are just too many in Tasmania, but if I were, I could have ticked off Wessex Tarn, Odo Tarn, Lake George, Lake Vincent, Lake Eva, Lakes Adella and Arlet and the Guelph Basin of Lake King William. I could see Mt Ida, but I don’t think I got a glimpse of Lake St Clair – it was a bit hazy in that direction, or perhaps I wasn’t high enough. I am a waterfall bagger, and Saxon Creek Falls were very clearly visible, but that was not a first-time bag. I nearly died at the hands of that waterfall on our first encounter (2012), when the rock I was standing on shot out from underneath me as I scaled the falls, and I was left dangling uselessly from a tree root with a three-day pack on my back, drenching wet but with nothing for my feet to use, and arms losing their strength with each passing second. Luckily I had just written my will before I left home. The drop below did not bear contemplation. Fortunately, a fast-reacting Rod got my arms and somehow disconnected pack from girl so that I could pull up my own body weight. Phew. I will not forget Saxon Creek Falls in a hurry. Please do not try to tell me they are insignificant just because they don’t have a little blue line over the creek on the map. These matters are utterly arbitrary, and dependent on the will of a bureaucrat in an office somewhere. The drop would have killed me. The climbers below were too small for comfort, with horror written in their bulging eyes. How odd that I had time to notice that detail in what might have been my last few seconds. But this trip was a happier one. I could just wave a jaunty “Hi” across the valley and greet them from a safe distance.

Lunchspot tarns. Norman shelf
The day was a little hazy, but mountain views of the many, many Tassie peaks in our purview were also enjoyable, as was the alpine walking around tiny tarns and intricate pools of pure, clear water, with flowering cushion plants and fruiting pineapple grass at our feet. How lucky we are to live in a place where such thrills are there for a day walk.

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Hartz Peak 2018 Oct

Hartz Peak 2018 Oct

Abby surveys the view from Hartz Mountain.
It has been six years since I last climbed Hartz Peak: certainly time for a revisit, and what fun to be able to share it with the family. This would be Abby’s first Abel, Gussy’s second.

Hartz summit in view
Of course, with young children, the going is slower, and most unusually, our ascent was punctuated with a swim in Ladies Tarn. In fact, some of us swam there in both directions. Even Abby got brave enough to strip off all her clothes, but changed her mind about immersion once her toes felt the gelid water.  I didn’t even think about it.


Ladies Tarn
Hartz Peak has a track the whole way, so is very easy for fit children to accomplish. Gussy, aged seven, fair bounced up the mount. Abby, aged two, took longer, and had to hitch a ride for part of the way. Porters and children needed a break at the tarn.

Both children took great pleasure in touching the summit cairn, and in having lunch on top of a mountain. Here are some photos of the journey to the top to give you an idea of what it’s like if you haven’t yet had the pleasure of doing this one. The actual walking time was about half an hour to the tarn, and a further half to the top (Gussy times, not Abby ones). The return was actually a little slower than the ascent. Gussy shares his nan’s summit fever (the two of us went on ahead of the others together) and is cautious on the downhill. I actually went on ahead on the rebound in order to check out Keoghs Falls – but they were a huge disappointment, and I didn’t even bother photographing them.


Hartz Peak summit area Gussy


Hartz Peak summit area Abby

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Long Lake 2018 Snow Camping. Sept

Snow Camping at Long Lake, Central Plateau. Sept 2018.


As I walked up the road leading to the old carpark – a walk we are not supposed to like, but one idles up a tunnel of pure myrtle with its delicate little leaves and mossy trunks; walking, in fact, on moss and looking out at rich, open rainforest – I became suddenly aware of how fundamentally content I was doing this act of walking in the wilderness with my pack on my back in the implicit company of a few friends, who were not actually with me at that current point in time, but were somewhere up ahead, or behind; we were together, even if not crowding each other out.

One stops, sheds something, catches up … there are moments of solitude and times of company, as one chooses.  I possibly should not have been surprised at my contentment – I am, after all,  “naturelover” – and yet it arrived unexpectedly, as I wasn’t seeking or explicitly anticipating it. It was just a feeling that overtook me as I wandered, and I realised that there was nothing else I needed at that particular moment, and that, although my darling Bruce has gone, there is a wonderful life to be lead, nonetheless. Perhaps this awareness was nudged into existence by a text I had had from my little grandson during the week, saying: “Don’t go, nanny”.  Go where? I had already gone from his house. I read it as a deeper statement of love and the expression of a desire to have me around.

The Little Fisher River is one of my favourite rivers in the whole world. It gurgles with just the right amount of pure, clear water, cascading picturesquely through open myrtle forest of green and brown, both colours rich in intensity. Every now and then monster tree trunks enter my purview, stately curving their way up to the light, covered in soft moss.  It took us 1 hr 13 to the carpark, and another 8 minutes to the first river crossing, which I was not anticipating with glee, having heard it was slippery and dangerous these days. I was keen to get it over and done with, as I don’t like carrying all my expensive camera gear over slippery terrain where it might get damaged, and I certainly did not want to land in the river. The temperature was not much above zero. In fact, light snow fell for most of the day.

From the bridge to the glorious Rinadena Falls was another hour’s walk. I love these falls, but we got there a bit too late for the best photographic conditions, and the fact that it was snowing and truly freezing did not have me leaping around with ecstasy. We crouched under branches to eat our lunch, with me hoping the frozen precipitation might slow down enough to warrant setting up my tripod. I did set up, but did a pretty rushed job, as the others were keen to move on, having already taken a few snaps.

On we went. I was looking forward to the climby bit, as I had chilled off somewhat over the inevitable stasis of lunch-munching. The section between Rinadeena and the valley above – Little Fisher Valley? – is rather steep, with two sections having fixed rope to aid climbing the slippery face.

Once we entered that high valley, with its flattish area in between Turrana Bluff and Mersey Crag, the patches of snow multiplied rapidly. We also struck our first icy tarns. We still had one final climb – only a hundred metres’ height gain – to reach Long Tarn now. And once up that, everything was pure white and a fairyland of beauty. One of our party wasn’t handling the snow well, which gave us plenty of time to appreciate the various vignettes of magical scenery as we quietly wended our unhurried way towards the pencil-pine goal.  The slower person apologised; as a joke, one pointed out she had a train to catch; I said I had a doctor’s appointment at 3.16. Rolfe made a bet that the doctor would give up on me and go home. It seems he was right. I was late for the appointment, and there was no doctor waiting. Luckily I wasn’t sick anyway. Pure nature healed anything that might have been wrong.

Long Lake with Turrana Bluff behind.
Pitching the tent was a pretty cold business, as it is a very static job, so I had chilled right down by the time my accommodation for the night was established. Rolfe suggested we walk up to the ridge to see Mt Jerusalem and Daisy Lake, and I was all for it. A bit of a climb might warm me up again, and if there was going to be any colour at sunset, we would be well positioned to photograph it. There wasn’t … but I did warm up. The cup of water I had left just outside the vestibule, however, was frozen solid. I banged out the ice so I could drink later, wondering how the other water I had gathered would hold out.

I always worry in snow camping about my ability to warm up the tent space. I am a lot more confident if with my daughters, sharing a tent (or with Bruce, but that is no longer a possibility). Two people definitely warm up a tent with no problems. The fact that I can do it alone comes as a relief and a confidence booster. My boots froze overnight (as did the laces, of course); my water bladder did likewise, but I was pretty warm with what I had brought, so was happy with the outcome. This was my first snowcamp for 2018, and it’s surprising how out of practice one can feel doing it for the first time in any given winter. I warmed the tent alone and coped alone, but I sure did appreciate the knowledge that in that pine grove over there were three others, and just down the slope a ways, two more, so that if I felt dangerously hypothermic, or if my tent collapsed overnight or if some other unplanned catastrophe overtook me, I could yell for help and someone would come to aid me, is a huge relief. This is one of the many massive benefits of being in a club.


Dawn light

Breakfast was served in bed – in my sleeping bag, in fact – to a view of a slightly pink-tinged dawn, with light snow falling. Having my tent fly pulled right back was not calculated to keep me warm, but with beauty like that I didn’t care. I popped on an extra coat and slowly imbibed my porridge while watching the light flakes make their way to the ground. This is what one comes for. I loved it. We were all elated by the beauty as we set out for home an hour or so later. The forest was covered in a new coat of white powder, as the snow had been falling on and off all night, just a light hint of a thud against the tent. Peace.

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Mathinna Falls 2018 Aug

Mathinna Falls, 2018, 1st Aug


Tessa and I didn’t set out for Mathinna Falls until after lunch (in Launceston). The days are winter-short, but google said it would only take two hours to get there (correct), and about ten minutes to walk from the carpark to the falls (also correct). We were thus at the falls by 3.30 pm, which should have been just about perfect. The day was sunny, but the valley which cuddles these falls is steep and closed in, so no sun was present to glare up the water. It was actually quite dark and gloomy in there, even at that hour, and seemed much later. My early shots have a slightly golden tinge up where the sun could reach.


I chose gumboots for this journey, figuring there’d be a lot of water, and off we set. Good choice: water burst the banks and spilled out over sections of the track. The falls could be heard thundering and crashing up ahead. I was worried about Tessa being stupid, but she was frightened, and stuck very close to me the whole time. Just a quick drink was enough for her to feel the mighty force of this water.


I was worried that the force of the water might pose tripod problems, but, well, that’s the reason I chose sirui, and it didn’t let me down: my tripod stood as solid as a rock in the rushing, pounding stream. There is no problem with sharpness in my images. My problems are mine alone, and have to do with the enormous dynamic range between the very dark foreground and side frames, and the overly light falls, made very bright by the massive volume of water. I had a similar problem in Iceland. You need to do exposure blending, and you need to have photos of very different exposures. I didn’t go fast enough on the falls part of the shot. I need to be more extreme next time in this situation. I thought I had it covered, but I wasn’t quite right.


My boots were an interesting choice when it came time to climb up to the next two levels of falls. I found they were very slippery indeed on the rocks, and, as I didn’t feel like packing everything away for that climb, I negotiated the tricky climb with my camera and its filters plus tripod in one hand, leaving only the other hand for clinging to obstacles to stop me sliding backwards. I’m afraid I looked (and was) cumbersome and clumsy – not for the first time in my life. Anyway, I got there, and I saw a beautiful waterfall, and learned some valuable lessons for next time. Sunset behind Stacks Bluff on the way home was a treat.


I chose the longer but faster (for me) route via Fingal. From there, I headed north to Mathinna, and took the road over the bridge heading for Ringarooma. After that turn, there are signs to the Mathinna Falls. It’s a pity they’re not signed from Mathinna itself. The cyan line above begins at the carpark.

 

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Cuvier 2014, 2015

Mt Cuvier 2014, 2015


Arriving at dusk
Mt Cuvier is so remote that it is usually climbed in conjunction with other peaks, I have climbed it twice: once on the way to Tramontane, and once on the way back from Goulds Sugarloaf. Both times I slept on its shelf. I love it there so much I will go back just to sleep in that spot again, even if I don’t climb anything else. Probably the worst part of getting there is just before you enter the saddle between Byron and Cuvier on the Byron side of things. This saddle is watched over by a highly protective band of scoparia. It poses a mild delaying factor while one searches for a route through. It is not by any means the worst patch of this darling bush that one will find on any trip. The 2015 trip was in partial snow, and that made it really special.


Summitting at the end of a long day in which we climbed many mountains, the furthest peak being Goulds Sugarloaf.


This is from a different trip, when Angela and I climbed Pyramid Mountain. Here Angela is looking at Mt Cuvier from way out west in even more remote wilderness: from Rocky Hill in the Eldons. When I look at a photo like this, I realise with an almost overwhelming emotion what an incredibly privileged person I am to have been to these remote places while they are still wild. What will be left for the next generation? It seems no government cares.
Yet the need to be in truly remote places and lose ourselves in the grandeur of the natural world, to expose ourselves to the infinite nature of a realm beyond our tiny concerns is healthy for our souls and for the way we relate to other people and our planet. The ones who will cause harm are the ones who don’t understand our place in the wider scheme of things. If you listen to the Liberal government, you’d think there is no greater goal for a human than a full pocket at the expense of every other human on the planet, present or future. The only language spoken is that of economics. They know no higher goals or deeper meaning. Intangibles like beauty or sublimity – or goodness – are beyond their grasp. Honesty never was in their dictionary. Responsibility is a word for others. The problem is that Labor is no better, and the greens have decided to keep their battles tiny so as to claim a few minor skirmishes, and they seem to have lost sight of how they got their colour.