It had been snowing for several days during the week, so I went up to the Upper Liffey Falls and Pine Lake to photograph a white wonderland. However, most of the snow had melted. Sometimes we don’t get what we hope for. But in that failure to achieve white, I still found many rich browns and scenes of sombre beauty. Here are a few photos from my day. There is also a 2017 post on Upper Liffey Falls should you want to see more. http://www.natureloverswalks.com/upper-liffey-falls/
Richea acerosaSnowy scene. Pencil pine behindUpper Liffey FallsAthrotaxis cupressoides. Pencil Pine, proving that it’s frost resistant.
I had intended to do more exploring on the other side of the road, and set out in that direction, but I was wearing brand new overpants, and I needed to wear them for wind protection. However, there is a lot of scoparia over there, and I didn’t think anything I saw could justify the expense of yet another pair of waterproof pants, so turned around and saved myself 160 dollars.
I was in search of a decent-lengthed workout, and have long wanted to visit Pelion Falls, on the northern side of Mt Pelion West. I decided that I’d have a go at reaching these falls (and back) in a single day. If I failed to succeed, the act of trying would be reward in enough. I would have a great workout in the mountains, and get to enjoy wonderful scenery while I did it.
Little did I know that I was setting out on a 55.6 km walk, to be squeezed in before it got dark (although I did have my headtorch in), and carrying a 7.3 kg pack containing food (nearly 2kgs at the start. I returned with 1kg), emergency equipment – both clothes and electrical -, and, of course, my trusty tripod, Nisi filters and full-frame camera.
Pelion Falls
It is pretty impossible to calculate absolutely the distance to be covered from a map, where many of the twists and turns are not reckoned with, but I thought I could be letting myself in for a 35-38 km day. Why would anyone check on the gps track data whilst in motion? I decided to have a look at half way, and without taking height into consideration, I knew I was already clocking up a day of over 50 kms. It was only the day after that I added in the height variables to discover that the reason my legs were a little flat on that day was that I had not only covered 45 horizontal kilometres, but also climbed over 1000 ms, yielding 55.6 kilometre equivalents for the day. I am very glad I didn’t know that before setting out, or I would never have trusted myself to get it in – at all, let alone in the light (which I managed – just).
Pelion Falls
I did know I was undertaking what looked like a big distance on the map, so set out in business-march mode, powering up the first very steep and quite long slope, making it to Lake Price in 48 minutes. I have always nicknamed the tributary at this spot (which is actually one of many tributaries of the Arm River) “Drink Creek”, as it is traditionally a spot for having a drink and letting a group gather all its members together after they have spread out during the climb. Some people take an hour ten, or more, to reach this point. But I was alone, part of no group, so was as free as a bird. I threw down a quick drink and was on my way.
The next twenty eight minutes took me to the high point on my track, which is a saddle overlooking the area of the Overland Trail, with excellent views to Mt Ossa, Pelion West, Pillinger and more. Light clouds decorated the mountains, but I could still see everything I wanted to, and delighted in it. How incredibly free I felt, to be able to go as far and as fast as I liked with nobody complaining. The silence was blissful (as long as you don’t count my singing, but I don’t listen to myself sing; I just do it as I walk. It is an expression of the song that is constantly in my head).
Pelion Falls
Already at this point, I had bumped into five people in two sub-groups, who had climbed Mt Pillinger to watch the dawn up there. I knew the father of the group: he was on Bruce’s staff at Church Grammar, and he and Bruce and other staff members had done an epic crossing of the Western Arthurs many years ago. I have never once seen this person around Launceston, but have bumped into him in the wilderness three times!
I made it to Pelion Hut just as the last people were leaving for whatever they were about to do that day. Three of them stayed to chat to me while I took a brief food break. The lights went on for one of them; he realised who I was and told me he follows both my blog and my instagram. It was such fun to meet them.
After the hut, there is a strip that took me over fifty minutes down to Froggy Flats and its crossing over the Forth River. That split felt shorter, as the scenery was so beautiful time whizzed by. Time did not whizz by for the next split, which looked much shorter on the map than it actually was, due to the many ins and outs the track makes to deviate from a direct path. Such diversions get smoothed out on the map. Also, it is an uphill stretch. I didn’t realise the extent of the climb until later when I examined a graph of my route. At last, however, I came to a creek, which on examination proved to be my much-awaited Pelion Creek. I confirmed by consulting my gps. There was a family group resting there. They asked where I was going, seeing’s I’d just turned from continuing straight ahead. I pointed into the shrubbery: “That way.”
“Oh”, they said, somewhat surprised. It hardly looked inviting. I explained there was a waterfall up there. They wished me well.
Pelion Falls
At last I was there. It had taken, so far, 4 hours and 40 minutes of concerted effort, and would take longer to get back, for sure. Was it worth it? OH YES. Not so much because it was the most beautiful waterfall on the planet, and certainly not because I could tick another box. A cynic could say that this was an example of the psychological phenomenon of Cognitive Dissonance Theory, whereby it is claimed that our brain invents justifications for the advantages of something that we have just invested a lot of time, energy or money into. There is good statistical backing for this. However, I just say that yes, it claimed a lot of work on my part, and that does make it special to me. Things that come cheaply are not valued as highly as things we have worked for. This waterfall will always remain special to me, because I gave so much to it, and it did not spurn me, but greeted me with ethereal, ephemeral beauty of wispy veils of delicate white mist, partly obscuring fresh, lush but rather diminutive pandani trees and masses of moss.
There were far more fungi than flowers on this trip. A patch of maybe five clusters of Ramaria botritis caught my eye.
My only regret of the whole day was that I couldn’t spend hours there, but we are on the lean side of the equinox, and the sun would not allow me this luxury. Having hurried here, I now had to hurry back in a race against the dark.
My race did not proceed without several more lovely social happenings, however. The people I now passed wanted to know how the waterfall was; of course I had to tell them. Then, as I was passing Froggy Flats, I heard my name being called. It was a former school captain of Church Grammar, and thus old friend now. I could have spent hours catching up, but we had to agree to do so in Hobart later. We did a small bit there, and I got introduced to his family. He said he was just telling them that the very reason he was standing in that spot was because of Bruce and me. I felt very emotional about that. You help students, you introduce them to things you love, you share with them. When you hear that it has had a profound influence on their life, it is very meaningful, and it also sent me a pang of grief at the loss of my dear Bruce.
Lots of sections of my walk traversed lush wet forest – always such a joy
Back at Pelion Hut, and having a more substantial food break, someone I didn’t think I knew came rushing out of the hut, greeting me by name (and with a welcome hug). It turns out she was from the ABC and had done a recent interview with me when one of my photos had won third place in a big international photography competition. We had a lovely talk, and someone else from the hut brought me a cup of ginger and lemon tea. How fabulous is that (thanks Tyler)!
And so, now it was time for the final 2.5 hours of my stint … or longer. I was getting tired, and yes, it lasted 2 hrs 50, as my freshness was evaporating. This section was not without social interaction, as I met two more friendly people and, well, this is Tassie. When you meet someone in the bush you don’t just mutter hello and pass by; you interact, and I was no longer on the Overland section of the walk with its crowds of tourists. This bit isn’t in tour guides, so the people you meet are locals. Hoorah.
I felt confident that I would be back before dark, so was no longer hurrying. I’m glad I moved on when I did, however, as I got back to the car right at the end of the visible day. I now had a two-hour drive to undertake with full fatigue. For me, the dangers are not those of the bush, but those of the road on the way home. I want to stay alive for my family, and also for my dog. If I died on the road, who would know to feed a waiting Tessie? So, I had arranged for my friend Evelyn to go and feed her should something happen to me. I gave her texts when I could to report progress. Meanwhile, my darling daughters chatted to me on the phone (hands free), partly to tell me about Easter, but also, I suspect, partly to help keep me awake at the danger end of a fabulous day.
I had a free day in Hobart, and there had been good rain about a week ago, so, hopeful that water would still be flowing, I set out for the newly mapped and named Trestle Falls, lying not surprisingly on Trestle Creek, which flows down from Trestle Mountain.
Trestle Falls Lowest
When I looked at the map, I decided the best approach would be via the publess, shopless hamlet of Mountain River, and use the track called Mountain River Trail that emanates from the Mountain River Road terminus.
I have actually never used this trail, having only climbed Trestle Mountain using the Mt Connection track to its east. That track was wide and boring. This one was a narrow, green path which I greatly enjoyed. I used the track to gain height; the falls, however, do not lie on any tracks, and navigation and “bush bashing” (not much bashing went on) are needed to get there. There was certainly an amount of ducking, climbing and weaving. This is for experienced bush people. Using the track, I worked out from the shape of the land when I was on the same contour as the falls would be, and left its ease and headed into the bush on contour to reach the lowest of the falls.
Trestle Falls Lower
The forest was not difficult to traverse, and was delightfully green. Even better, there was, oh joy, no ugly blasted pink tape to mar its beauty or kill the animals. Obviously, this waterfall was in the south, where the population seems to be less inclined to ruin every scrap of bush they can find. (I’m allowed to criticise the north, as that’s where I live. Are there any untaped waterfalls left up there? Don’t say which ones, or they’ll have plastic littering them by tomorrow.)
Trestle Falls Middle
Anyway, this waterfall was a “choose your own route and adventure” one, a dying breed, and I loved it for that. I enjoyed the uncertainty of reaching my goal, which makes finding it so much more pleasurable.
Trestle Falls Middle
I found four waterfalls that I considered to be worthy of setting up and photographing. You could call it more if you counted some of the “doubles”. I didn’t, so called it four. My bottom one, number 4, was lower than the one called Lower by Caedence, so I called it Lowest Trestle Falls. Then came Lower, my favourite. Middle was pretty nice and Upper, well, it was better protected than the others – ie, less accessible – and I’m not sure that the effort would justify a return visit. Definitely, for me, falls 2 and 3 won the beauty prizes. The top falls, that are where the falls are on the map, are certainly the tallest, but size isn’t everything in my books.
Trestle Falls Upper
My route back was not a good one, as I was extravagant with the height gain out of the top falls, and had more obstacles to deal with at that height. Although it was downhill, and theoretically quicker, I took longer than on the climb up to reach the falls. My route in was 43 minutes from car to the bottom falls, the route out nearer to 50. The catch is that I spent 1 hr 15 covering maybe 200 ms between the top and bottom, due to massive amounts of photography. Even so, I was back in time for a late lunch, and full of joy at the lovely forest I had been immersed in. For me, to photograph beauty is to become united with it. I totally lose myself and merge with whatever it is I am photographing. It is a very liberating activity.
Quite some time ago, several friends had told me about the existence of a waterfall at Cornwall, but no one could tell me where it was. I had a good map stare, and decided where I thought it should be, or hoped it might be, and drove to Cornwall to test my theory. I got to the road I wanted to follow, but grew uncertain as to whether I was allowed to go along it. Luckily, someone looked to be home at the nearest house, so I asked, and they said it was fine to go along, and yes, there was a waterfall along there. My dog was even welcome, but as they warned me that snakes were likely, Tess had to view the falls on the lead.
Wahlenbergia gracilis
The forest was pleasant enough, and the walk far too short to justify a long drive, but it was a nice place to be if you happened to be passing by on the way to the coast. On my first visit, there was only a trickle, so I waited for a decent dump over on the east before returning. I decided the rain of last week should do the trick, so called back in on Friday. I was rewarded with water falling this time.
Cornwall Falls
It is worth going a little beyond the falls, as far as the next creek. There is an old “building” of interest, covered in greenery in that next gully. There is a place to park where my blue line begins.
Six and Twenty Falls at St Marys were, for me, yet another tantalising blue line on a map that I could find no information on, with no hint of a photo or a story to indicate that anyone else had been there. Ah well, here goes for another adventure.
The beautiful bush through which I traversed
When map staring, I could see that they were just on the public land side of a public-private boundary, so I could navigate along the public land line and reach the falls without popping my tootsies onto someone else’s property. This was a nice idea. Little did I know that the bush would be so thick with a tangle of debris. I had to take on the role of living bulldozer to get through it. It was the sort of stuff you have to force your way through; it wasn’t a matter of climbing over or around: you just had to shove and keep shoving.
Sniffing possibilities
When I use the word “boundary”, that perhaps implies a clear mark on the ground, a fence or something. Na. It was just a line on the map, with no distinction between thick bush on each side. That said, I did feel a great longing to use farmed land in a longer route, but I had no idea who owned it, or whether they would mind someone using it to access the falls, so I persevered with the tough bush. What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, they say. I think I was more psychologically than physically verging on being defeated.
This is what I thought the falls were, and where I ate, only later discovering it was a mere appetiser.
But from some hidden corner of my being I found the will to keep going, and at last after about 50 minutes of concerted shoving, I found what I assumed was the falls. Well, I found a pretty waterfall, and it was where the falls should be. I was relieved, and sat to eat and enjoy first; photograph second.
THIS is the real thing: Six and Twenty Falls. Sorry my camera was upstream.
Just as I was packing up, I noticed a sense of space further below me. With Knäckebröd in one hand and my drinking cup in the other, I continued down stream to check out my sense of vacuum. Climb; haul, snoop; OH!! Here was a bigger fall. But there was still a sense of space so on I went (my pack with camera is now well and truly behind me. I have a cup, plb and phone. C’est tout). This next time I discovered a humungous drop. I had eaten entree thinking it was dinner. Actually, it was only a pre-entree appetiser. And there I was with only my iPhone. My camera was back at the appetiser. I took a few snaps and went to retrieve my gear – much harder than might be imagined.
Hopefully this gives you a bit of an idea of the scale – and of why I will return under better lighting conditions now I know what’s there
I got it at last, but was nagged by the desire to get to the base of this massive drop. That I did, but by this stage was so mentally exhausted I didn’t feel like unpacking all my gear to set up for a photo, or with dealing with the fact that where I descended to water level, I was too short to see over the rocks to get a good view of the base. I really felt that I had no adrenalin left to do any more fancy climbing, so patted myself on the back for getting there, and turned for home. The way back was faster, as I didn’t have to check direction as often, was feeling more confident, and had already pushed down some of the resisting bush.
Pretty interlude
Would I go back? If I had a bash partner, definitely. There was great drama there, but I’d had enough for one day. This was only really a recce, done in sunshine. Clouds would yield much better images. Besides, it was time for a late lunch number two, and I have become addicted to the pleasure of lentil vegetable soup at the Purple Possum in St Marys, and the cake I follow up with is always amazing. Time to refuel!
