Category: Abel

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Stepped Hills 2015 Feb

Stepped Hills 2015 i Feb. Failed attempt

Up they climb
What is it about some mountains that incites in us a “must climb” response? Is it the shape? The myths and tales that surround it, adding mystery and allure? With regard to Stepped Hills, it is certainly not the name: “Stepped” may well be descriptive, but “hills” is an insult. For me in this case, it was definitely the shape, and the shadows cast on its striated layers the first time I saw it. Perhaps also it was the enormity of the Gordon Gorge that guards its southern flank, announcing the impossibility of approaching from where I stood. I saw it from Clear Hill (also not a hill) and wanted to be there. I saw it when I climbed the Thumbs and wanted to be there. It was always so near and yet so very far with its gulchy uncrossable moat. But here I stood at last with five friends, ready to tackle her despite the forecast of a scorcher. I was full of eager anticipation, although wary of the enormous climb in heat like we had been promised.

A well-deserved pause

Off we set at 7.15 from the carpark. Over the Gordon we went, knowing we’d want a swim at the other end of our journey. At last we were at the business end of things, staring from down in the golden valley up at Mt Wright which guards our goal from the east. First, we had to climb her and descend the other side before we could begin the quest in earnest. Wright belies her ruthless steepness when viewed from the valley below, but I know the reality of her slope and so had kept my pack as light as possible (which did not include forgoing the pleasure I get from having my full-frame camera on board). I was, however, only carrying 600 mls of water at this stage, planning on getting another 600 at the creek I knew we’d cross about an hour from the car. This creek, for me, acts as the start of the business end of the climb – the hand pulling on tufts of grass and bushes, feet at decidedly acute angle to leg, tripping over contour lines type of climb that one engages in on Wright.

Playing at the arch while we wait for the others

Everyone wanted to stop at “table top rock”, but I wanted to check on the creek a tad further up before I had a break: I had been most disconcerted to note a desiccated tarn shortly after leaving the Rasselas track. I said I’d meet the others there. Dismay. The channel of gurgling bouncing waters that had threatened to soak my boots in December was nothing but dust and brown moss today. Oh dear. Mt Wright with a full overnight pack, including tent and stove and fuel, on 600 mls water. Better save my precious drops for later and just watch others drinking right now. I know myself well enough to know that I can survive under these conditions. Please don’t try to copy: I’m a freak. Possibly being a little like a spider helps (minimum torso, long limbs – good surface area for reducing heat, and no fat to insulate it).

View through the arch

Up to the arch we went, with me conserving energy by going nowhere near my aerobic threshold, keeping my heart rate low. The arch provided a welcoming band of strong shade which we would use to have a break in. The heat haze hadn’t developed yet, and the scenery was wonderful and crisp still. Everyone was coping well. Off we set again, this time to the highest point that we would go (5 mins short of the summit) and then down the other side on the rock scree to a point under a rocky knoll that offered the next section of dark shadow for an early lunch. Here I had my first drink – 300 mls. Meanwhile, to our enormous relief we could see two little circles of light far below where we were heading that signified water. Olay.

Beautiful light while climbing Stepped Hills, looking towards the mountains surrounding Lake Rhona.

Now began a challenging descent, made so not only by the brutal gradient, but exacerbated by the fact that the microwave-sized rocks were not stable, and every third one moved under you as you put weight on it, threatening a landslide. I was very tense as I negotiated this peril. Firstly, I had my very expensive camera attached to my chest, and secondly, I have a hand that is still officially broken, but whose protective covering has been reduced. This would not be a good moment to have a fall. When we stopped for a break about half way down, I realised I was stunningly tense, almost shaking, and the relief of relaxing my guard under the filtered shade of the gum trees was bliss. I had another 100 mls of water to celebrate.

Shadows elongate on The Thumbs during our return to camp

At last the dangerous section was over and we now only had to trudge through the long button grass to the tarn we’d seen from above. On the way we discovered a small soak that we could use to pour water over our heads and to quench our thirst. Wonderful. We drank greedily.

Dawn next day

Tents erected (with difficulty, actually. The button grass surrounding the tarn was very lumpy and the shorter grass above was prickly: I feared the bottom of my tent would be pierced, so pitched on pure rock); tiger snake warded off; day packs sorted and we were off with no real rest at all. We didn’t have the luxury of spare time for that. It was, alas, after 4 pm.

Looking back at Stepped Hills shortly after dawn 

Before we could start climbing Stepped Hills, we still had to drop into and cross a creek, so down we plunged, sliding down some interesting cliff lines. At the bottom lay a creek. We could hear running water. Oh joy unbounded. This creek was nothing short of divine. Never, never has water tasted so absolutely, miraculously wonderful, so full of life and so utterly refreshing. It cooled the body and revived the soul. We drank and drank and drank some more. We ditched the tepid tarn goo and drank some more again. The coolness was a magic wand. Now we could climb some more, but alas, the shadows were starting to lengthen, the light was adopting a golden hue.

A whole wilderness to oneself: my little tent in the vastness of the broad ridge

At 6.30 we were still 200 mts from the top. We could easily get there in the light, but the others were worried about the trip back and wanted to turn around. Certainly it had been a long, punishing day (just short of twelve hours at this stage). Our noble leader, full of guts and grit, was ignoring his spent body and ruling with his mind in his desire to continue to get the summit. Then he’d only be nine Abels short of a full set. I, too, was still wanting to summit. I know from orienteering night championships, and from several summits I’ve done with my husband at sunset, that I can navigate back to the tent in the dark with few problems, even steering a man with Parkinson’s without coming to grief. However, I was here with a fine bushwalker who is significantly larger than I am and who was looking the picture of quintessential exhaustion. If weariness got to him and he collapsed, I couldn’t carry him or move him to safety. He might take 40 mins more to the top and then another three hours back. Even more to the point, I was uncertain as to how much battery power I had left at this stage, and I do need light to navigate. I tried to imprint in my mind the angle between the tent and the summit of Wright, which I assumed I would be able to see by starlight if it came to the crunch. I know that it is not too bad traversing scrub once night vision kicks in if you take it at a sensible speed, but there were a lot of uncertainties in the equation I was forming. The problem was solved by D admitting reluctant defeat, so we all stood up and turned around. Stepped Hills will have to wait a bit more. I had still had a glorious day.

Breakfasting in the early light

Our goal was denied us, but we were all happy. We’d worked well under hard conditions; we’d enjoyed each other’s company and delighted in the wonderful wilderness around us. We were contented as we ate our meals in the fading light, watching moonset to the left, the rise of the evening star to the right, and the increasing glitter as the Milky Way did its sparkler thing above. I felt a wonderful sense of peace.

I took a slight deviation for photographic purposes on the way back up Wright

I won’t say much about the climb back up and over Wight, which was enjoyable, as I want to leave space to tell of the final half hour of our journey: a swim in the Gordon River. I have lived here 26 years but dared my first swim in a Wild River (or any river, for that matter) on this trip. This is not because our amazing wild rivers are ferocious, but because I am a wimp. I am president, secretary and treasurer of the certified wuss club, and I hate being cold. If I tell you I wore a merino icebreaker top the whole weekend (35 degrees in Hobart) does that not say it all?

Returning to the dumped packs after visiting the summit

Our wild rivers have an entire mythology surrounding them. They are truly magical, set mostly in pristine temperate rainforest of the lushest green possible. We have fought hard to save them from the clutches of edacious developers who can only interpret the signs of beauty with its translation into money and who seem to have no soul to understand anything ethereal. Just the names – such as Franklin or Murchison or Gordon – are enough to evoke a frisson of delight. The Gordon is no longer wild, thanks to conservationists losing the first battle of the war, but the upper reaches are still untouched and are very special places to witness. To be fully immersed in such water, to feel its lenifying coolness and taste its sweetness is superb. My friend sat there and drank the water she was swimming in, delighting in the fact that she could do so. Petals from a leatherwood tree floated past. What a perfect end to our adventure. Thanks to a moving rock on the way back up Wright, I had a bruised and bashed body (camera fine, don’t worry), but now my spirits sang with delight. What a great thing it is to be alive and to have the Tasmanian wilderness to be alive in.
For the records, we climbed 700 ms up Wright (in a very short distance), dropped 465 ms; climbed a further 265, dropped the same and then climbed another 100 back to the tents on the first day.

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Southern Ranges 2015 Alexandra, Hippo, Lake Mt, Knife Mt, Maxwell Ra, La Perouse

Southern Ranges 6-9 Feb 2015

The Southern Ranges and I don’t have what might be termed a “good relationship”. Here’s where we stand:
Trip 1: with my husband. Blown off the range by winds that sounded like a dozen steam trains.
Trip 2: cancelled due to foul weather before it began.
Trip 3: Nov – nearly summer – but we were attacked by a vigorous blizzard. Everything looked beautiful decked in white but we climbed nothing meaningful in winds gusting over 100 kph
Trip 4: cancelled due to bad weather
Trip 5: I bailed out as the promised storms would have drenched the pins holding my hand together that were not allowed to get wet. The group that went in climbed only one mountain and spent most of the time hoping for better things.
Trip 6. This trip. Could I maintain my unblemished record of atrocious weather? Time would tell.

Friday. Off we set with blue skies … through the enchanted rainforest, ever upwards, climbing steeply from nearly sea level to a height where forest cedes to scrub and thence – at last – to alpine meadows and gardens. Some call it Heidi country; others harken to the Sound of Music. Up here, the air is clear, the vistas vast, the grass is verdant and the cushion plants a magic, lush green that quenches your thirst just looking at it. An array of other mountains cozens, and to the south the sea calls, beaches and waves visible even from this height. Down there and along some more is Antarctica. The path does descend intermittently into scoparia and bauera but not for long, and there is a way through: you’re not bashing your route.

Some members of our group were unwell and feeling the heat badly, so it was with joy all round that we finished the day and set up camp on Moores Bridge, which emanates from the northern belly of hill 3 and leads roughly north in the direction of Mt Alexandra. The sun was still stinging our faces as we ate dinner together later, but that could hardly attenuate our joy at such beautiful surroundings. As sunset reddened the sky, we abandoned our circle of happy chatter to photograph the marvellous light.

Close of Day 1: Enjoying dinner together
Evening falls

Saturday brought another glorious day and off the healthy three quarters of our group set for our first goal, Mt Alexandra. There were some small patches of scrub, but mostly this was a delightful amble along a high rounded ridge that joined our goal to Moonlight Ridge (with a couple of minor twists). Views were as extensive as our spirits were high and we walked gazing at an infinitude of beauty. Federation Peak said a very clear “Hello”. The actual summit of Alexandra was mildly fortified with scrub, but nothing too bad on a relative scale, and it was exciting to at last be on a real summit in this area that had closed its doors to me for so long.

The day was parchingly hot, and the unwell members of our party had not improved in our absence. They elected to stay put, so after lunch back at base a reduced group packed up tents to move to Pigsty Ponds. We three girls were very keen to climb The Hippo, so hived off from the male remainder of the group in the saddle between Hills 3 and 4, exchanging our laden rucksacks for daypacks. This quartet had bagged The Hippo long ago, so continued on to Reservoir Lakes, planning to meet us there. We contoured around to pick up the ridge (above Agnetes Garden) leading out to our goal. The Hippo might not be the highest mountain on the planet (or even in the state), but it sure has a dramatic look to it, and it has been evading me for a long time. At last I was standing on top of it with excited friends. Geoff, who had generously offered to stay the night with the suffering in ‘camp 1’ had come directly from there, but we had all converged before the final assault up the chute. This mountain was, for me, the highlight. It is the most “climby” of any mountains that we did, and it was from here that we got the best views of the trip. That said, the view out to sea was not perfectly clear: the area was preparing itself for the kind of conditions I was more accustomed to.

Mt Alexandra from a knob we inventively named “Alexandra south”

At last we three girls reached Pigsty Ponds, satisfied but tired. The Alexandra excursion had involved 3 hrs 40 walking plus stops. The Hippo was 50 mins from the saddle and 1 hr 10 back, and in addition we’d walked from camp. The total was only 5 mins short of 7 hours walking, to which breaks are then added. It was meal time; we looked down at where the guys were camped way below and resented the possible loss of precious contours; we looked at the thick bush we’d have to bash through and felt fatigued. We didn’t want to do any more and we did want to eat right now. Besides, we thought Pigsty Ponds was a beautiful area, replete as it was with glowing tarns in the evening light. We called out to the guys below that we wanted to camp up there. Sweetly, Rohan and Paul came up to show us a less bashy way down, but we had made up our minds and they were cool with our decision so chatted a while while we pitched and then parted for the night. The wind picked up while we cooked our eagerly-awaited dehy’d concoctions.

Geoff climbs the final part of The Hippo

On Sunday morning, the promised rain and wind had arrived in force. I awoke later than intended, heard the beating rain and called out to the others that it would be very nice to stay in bed longer and climb later. They agreed. We lay in our bags chatting and laughing across zipped tents.

The view south from The Hippo

“Oh no”, I cried as I heard the sound of the guys punctually arriving at 8, ready to begin our jaunt and expecting us to be ready. With enormous good will they hung around while we got our act together as quickly as we could (we had at least eaten by this stage).

Playing with edges near the Maxwell Range High Point

I can’t tell you much about the route for this day: it was a case of burying my head from the weather and passively following the boots in front (usually Rohan’s). We had a quick drink at Ooze Lake and after another bit of a climb, departed the track and began the climb proper – a very easy one, with the only difficulty being the slashing wind that stung my wet hands. Funnily, when we arrived at a summit cairn, I was so lost in my world of cold that I thought we’d climbed Knife Mountain, but this was just Lake Mountain. We were here after 2 hrs 02 of walking (plus breaks). Another 32 mins of rock balancing and scrub pushing saw us arrive at Knife mountain. On both mountains I was too cold to take a photo. I’m hoping to get one from someone else to record my presence on top.

Surveying the drop with wind flapping clothes everywhere
Precipitous Bluff from Mt La Perouse

The drop back down to the track in the rainforest below was very quick indeed, ably led by Paul. It was great to eat an early lunch under the shelter of pandanis and giant, 4-metre high scoparia bushes (just how I like them. They have very beautiful bark).

On the descent of La Perouse it was satisfying to have the scene clear a little and see Knife Mountain there beside the more obvious Pindars Peak. We hadn’t seen a thing whilst climbing it.

The route back was much faster – not only because it was downhill except for going over Maxwell Range, but also because we were not climbing Lake Mountain, so took a direct line. We were, however, significantly delayed by beauty on the return journey. The path up Maxwell warmed us up marginally – well, enough to not be dying of the cold – and the strong wind on top was exhilarating in its wildness rather than threatening. We all thus elected to visit the actual Maxwell Range High Point. It was fabulous to stand on top, be buffeted by it, court disaster with the cliff edges and watch Paul’s overpants billow out hilariously as they became spinnaker-like under the force. Luckily they didn’t sail him over the precipice.

Looking down on Pigsty Ponds from the descent of La Perouse. Our tents are near the lake at centre, hidden in trees

At the La Perouse turnoff, we three girls once more opted to climb whilst the guys mostly opted for a quick exit. Again, they’d climbed this mountain before and were not tempted by the conditions to do it again right now. Tony, however, opining that action was more interesting than bed, decided to turn our troika into a tetrad and off we set.  La Perouse was sure to offer different views today than it had given him fifteen years ago when he last climbed it.

The glorious Hippo, as seen on the way out

It was a lovely march to the top and exploration of the flat expanse and various views once we were there. We could see a murky SE Cape to our left; PB and Pindars Peak (and occasionally “our” Knife) to the west when the veil of cloud shifted to give us a peep. Once more we returned to the tents starving. We had, after all, climbed four mountains that day.

Packing up on the final morning

The weather cleared for the walk out next day. It’s funny, I had just climbed six mountains and negotiated boulders and scrub with only one hand, but the hardest part of the walk for this temporarily one-handed me was silly tasks like stuffing my sleeping bag into its sack, or my gear into my pack, or lifting the pack one-handed. Plaiting my hair is still out of the question. Still, I was only about five minutes late in the morning, and off we set up Hill 4 on our way out. Five of us lingered at the last of the tarns before our compulsory descent to lower lands at the base of Hill 1. It was time to savour our wonderful experience. We girls had felt most privileged to share this walk with some of Tasmania’s best bushmen whose tales we enjoyed and whose experience we valued. Thanks guys for a brilliant trip and especially thanks to Rohan for organising it.

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Collins Bonnet 2014 Feb

Collins Bonnet, 2014 Feb

View from summit to sea

What do you do if you have time on your hands in Hobart? Go shopping? Not in your life. For me, the answer is to use the time to climb a mountain, and that’s just what I did last Thursday, having driven down earlier than needed for safety reasons.
Having breakfasted at home in Launceston (taking care to pump myself full of caffein), I drove down, bypassing not only boring shops but also alluring cafes and brasseries, and went straight to the Big Bend on Wellington. Work first, reward later.

View along summer ridge

I had chosen a route to climb Collins Bonnet from here, as I will use the Myrtle Gully track some other time to climb Trestle Mountain, and I only wanted to do one mountain today. This route is longer in distance (and time) than the alternative, but I was in no rush. I had snacks on board and not having any kind of time estimate did not bother me. Maybe some time in the future I’ll compare times with the other way.
Off I set along the trail in the clear mountain air … down and then along past an open marshy area (no snakes today, which pleased me) up past Mt Connection that I climbed a few weeks ago, down to a saddle, mildly up on a widish forest road and at last I was climbing the actual mountain I had come to see. (More detailed information is on the relevant map. I will post my route when I retrieve my phone).

View towards Wellington (and my bagged Mt Connection).

As I sat on top, munching shortbreads, drinking spring water and surveying my temporary kingdom, I gazed across to Wellington from whence I’d come, a mountain with a far more extensive vista than the one I was on. However, I knew exactly which mountain I would prefer to sit on. Where I was, I could hear nothing but the solitude of wilderness, feel nothing but space and peace and the freedom and independence that accompany an excursion such as this. Here there is music for my soul.
I am always a little worried when I’m not carrying lunch that my shelf-life, which seems remarkably small to me, will terminate before I get to the end if I linger too long. I need feeding at very regular intervals and didn’t want to be late for a now much-needed lunch, so walked with purpose back to the car and, by implication, back to the fine food vendors of Hobart. YUM.
1 hr 49 from Big Bend to top. 10 mins eating. 1 hr 50 back. Total exercise: 3 hrs 39 mins.

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Stacks Bluff Wilmot Bluff Jan 2014

Looking back from whence we had come: to Denison Crag and Storys Bluff (inter alia).

The doctor at the hospital who had operated on me frowned severely: “You’re not to do anything dangerous with this cast on. If you bump the pins holding the wires in your hand, the situation will be disastrous.”
“I’ll just be walking, ” I quipped in as meek and subservient a voice as I could muster under the circumstances.

Stacks Bluff from Wilmot Bluff.

I wasn’t totally foolhardy: I had backed out of my planned six-day venture onto the southern ranges and exchanged it for a tamer three-day bash to Mt Sorell, but this had been cancelled due to flooding of a river we needed to cross. What was I to do? The thought of another weekend cooped up without a mountain was unendurable. I was craving a mountain with a need as strong as that of a growing plant for water, but with a broken hand, I would prefer the security of company. Then I noticed that Boots ‘n All were going up Stacks and Wilmot Bluffs, neither of which I’ve climbed. Perfect. I was ridiculously excited, like a prisoner released from gaol after a false conviction. At last my January mountain-drought was to finish.

Kind of a selfie, as the mild exposure en route to where I was now standing was a little off-putting, I set the aperture and speed to what I wanted, went there myself and got a friend to go click.

As I boulder hopped and noted the drops below, I spared a thought for the poor anxious surgeon who would find my activity dangerous. “Dangerous” is a very relative term, but I could tell that that medico envisages it as absolute, and that he had acquired defining rights. I jumped over the next crack, landing with ease onto the waiting boulder and pondered the relativity of words like danger, safety, risk and health. At lunch we had had a talk about freedom and how we gain true freedom. Americans use this word a lot, and yet your freedom (to own a gun, for example) can mean my thraldom to death; one can be so obsessed with one kind of freedom that one becomes a slave to that notion and loses real freedom in the process – and so it is with safety. A timorous pursuit of safety can lead to a lifestyle that is unhealthy and, thereby, unsafe from a different perspective.

How I love the jagged drama of these rocks.

It was a grand day: glorious scenery, a fun climb and great company. I returned home physically and psychologically refreshed.

Two routes for the price of one here. Yesterday’s is the cyan route, partly obscured by the purple, but visible if you search.

 

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Manfred 2014 Dec

Mt Manfred 2014 Dec


My first close-up sighting of Mt Manfred was on a trip to climb Mt Hugel 2013.
Mt Manfred was one of those shapely mountains that I had seen and noticed right back on my first ever venture into Tasmanian bushwalking, which I had done as a Sydney University student back in 1975. In that year, Bruce and I walked the Overland Trail in an adventure that would shape the rest of our lives. We had done bushwalking before, but this introduced us to a whole new spectrum. We immediately began plotting to move down here one day, and long-distance walking become part of our married existence.


One of the mountains on the horizon was Mt Manfred. How could you miss it? It has such an interesting shape. I never dreamt in my wildest imagination that I would one day climb it, and easily. But in December 2014, it was “merely” one of the mountains on the way to the remote Tramontane. We climbed it one afternoon after lunch on our way to the Murchison River. We had gone past Mt Byron, and over Mt Cuvier (where we slept the first night), and now here we were, climbing an icon. For the full story, see my blog on Mt Tramontane
http://www.natureloverswalks.com/tramontane-cuvier-manfred/


I have put this in to show you the summit view, but really, midday views do not interest me. Someone else took this photo. Manfred is better looked at than looked from. I am, of course, very glad I climbed it, and would love to sleep on its shelf again.