Category: Distance Trail

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Rocky Hill 2017 May

Rocky Hill 14-16 May 2017


We never doubted that we’d make it, but it was still an enormous relief to crest the final rise that led irrevocably to the summit of Rocky Hill. This was the second time the two of us had climbed Rocky, but was the first time we’d seen its rather elusive view. Clouds seem to enjoy Rocky Hill just as much as we do, and it pleases them to tease would-be view seekers.

It was so worth the day’s effort to see what we were now seeing: viz, a vast array of magnificent mountain friends, almost all of which we’d climbed, although not all of which we could readily name from that angle. In particular, we adored the different perspective on Eldon Crag and Peak; it was also amazing to see the seemingly ubiquitous Frenchmans Cap, which must be the “most seen” mountain in Tasmania. Way to the north east, we could see as far as Cradle, Barn Bluff and Emmett, as well as Pelion West, Ossa, Thetis, Manfred, Cuvier, Byron, Geryon, Acropolis and Olympus – in fact, the bulk of the mountains that line the famous Overland Track. This was not a view that you just noticed and then departed from. You had to stay for a long time. We bounced around with delight, and stayed all night. Well, in fact, we stayed two nights, so good was the view. The fact that we’d arrived up there by 3 pm meant we certainly had time to progress further along the ridge as far as Mediation Hill, but we were in love with this spot, and we stayed put. We thought we could make it to Pyramid Mountain (our next day’s objective) and back from there, although it was a slight gamble given the short days at this time of year.


It being so delightfully early, we had the luxury of exploring our little demesne for the night, to suss out snow drifts as a source of water and hunt for the best yabby holes. We spent a whole hour just gathering water for the next two days so that if we got back in the dark the following day, we wouldn’t have to go searching for liquid in order to cook, but could collapse straight into our tents. Our fabulous grassy patch was just below the summit, but, unlike the summit, was soft and lush.


As we slowly pitched and did all the activities associated with turning our chosen bit of mountain real estate into “home”, the clouds rose up in drifts from the valley below, turning more and more golden as the hour advanced. They were soft, wispy clouds that only partly veiled the mountain silhouettes around. Right at the peak of the drama, the ones above turned quite a strong dusky pink; it was a beautiful scene that I will never forget.


I don’t know why I had been so scared about crossing the Collingwood River at the start of the day. I guess I knew in advance that the temperature would be sub-zero, and that the river would not be summertime-low. It was, in fact, minus one, and upper-thigh high. Brrr. My main fear, of course, was slipping on the mossy rocks due to the force of the water, and falling in and getting hypothermic. I very sweetly let Angela go first to give me courage. It didn’t look easy as I watched her steadying herself, both arms out for balance. I grabbed a stick to help, took a huge gulp, and followed. I went in deeper than she did, mainly to keep on rocks that didn’t look as slippery. I made it, but my bottom half was frozen. Off we set up the very steep Pigeon House Hill. Surely that climb would warm us up. It warmed up everything but our feet; they took a little longer. By lunchtime they’d thawed, but, of course, they remained wet for all three days.


We found some random tapes on Pigeon House. We couldn’t work out where the person who put them there was going, but fortunately there weren’t too many. They took one onto the thickest part of the ridge, whereas the pad of least resistance, and the old route, skirts around the top at that early stage. We backtracked to find old cuts and used the old line instead. It was much easier going. If you are new to bushwalking, please don’t interpret that as “Oh goody, there’s a track up there. Let’s go.” Unfortunately, what I am referring to is small traces of where people have gone on some distant past occasion; you use broken or cut branches or other signs of humans passing (disturbed bark) to pick your line, and you have to have a very good idea of where you want to be going in order to gain from these signs. Please only venture into this untracked territory if you know what you’re doing and have a lot of experience. It is not for novices, or even for intermediate-standard walkers.


Once we gained the ridge past that early topping out, the going was easy for a little while, until our second “top out”, about an hour later, when we emerged from the beautiful forest onto a scrubby hill. From then on, for what seemed a long time, we had to lift our legs very high in a goose-step and at times force our way through higher patches of scrub: nothing too bad, but it does sap your energy anyway.


We concentrated on choosing a good line, and worked hard through the scrubby bits, and eventually we got there. If you don’t know Rocky Hill, don’t be fooled by its deceptive name. It is not a hill at all. It is an Abel, which means it is higher than 1100 ms (1194 to be exact), with a significant drop all around. Already snow drifts were building up with winter on the way. Some tarns were iced over. And the views, as said, were magic.


Next day, we’d climb Pyramid Mountain if all went well (and it did. See natureloverswalks.com/pyramid-mountain/). It was a big ask, so close to winter with the shortened days, but we’d give it a go. Just in case we weren’t quite as successful as we hoped, we packed bivvy bags, torches and a warm jacket beyond the many bundles of clothes we were already wearing. I thought that if we were stuck out overnight with wet gear, a bivvy and extra jacket would not be enough to save me, but I took them anyway. As it transpired, we were back well before our curfew, and had time to play on, and photograph, the rocks on the ridge with our tents in sight, as the mist once more rose up the valley.


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Western Arthurs 2017 Jan. More rain + snow


Most of us who love bushwalking do so because we love nature, and one of the things we love about nature is its ephemerality, and its unpredictability. We can never count on a repetition of a beautiful moment. Its adventitious arrival thrills us precisely because it cannot be arranged or designed by us.


We always feel ourselves particularly blessed to have been allowed to see such a spectacle. But equally, and because we do not get to boss nature around, it sometimes throws weather or events at us that are perhaps not what we would have ordered had we been allowed to do so. We have to accept this aspect of nature as well as the parts we revel in – and, in fact, many of us take a perverse delight in the wild side of nature anyway, knowing it’s part of the whole package that we adore.


Those of us on the recent HWC expedition to the Western Arthurs had to take this on board. Our intention had been to traverse the whole range. For several of us, this was not the first, or even the second, attempt at doing this. First, we had to delay our start by two days because it was snowing and freezing up there, making it unpleasant and even dangerous in spots. And then, while we were up there, new weather reports promised a repetition of this, combined with howling winds. This was not a week to be doing tricky climbing, or to be camping up high. We put our tails between our legs, and retreated, yet again thwarted by the conditions. I don’t mind being out-trumped by nature. I like to think humans are demonstrably not as grand and in control as we presume ourselves to be. Perhaps a little more (and helpful) respect for forces greater than ourselves can emerge from such encounters.


So, what are some results emerging from this weather, other than our turning around and doing yet another descent of Moraine A? Well, all the rain preceding our trip meant that the notoriously muddy Port Davey track was in fine form, with excellent depths of black squelch to be fallen into by the unsuspecting walker, thinking that he or she was stepping onto a piece of ground (wet, black, sodden) like all the other bits of ground. Plomp. In they go. Boots, gaiters, pants all became coated in a thick layer of ooze. I couldn’t pull my overpants off when I got hot as mud filled the zip and it wouldn’t move. Oh well. The positive side of this is that carrying water was unnecessary: it was readily available at almost every step of the journey. (Despite this, tent sites were not too squelchy.)


One had to be very careful about where one pitched one’s tent, as the howling winds announced their presence in rowdy terms. The winds changed direction and force during the night too, catching out certain walkers that we met. Everything became just a little bit more difficult.


It was pretty cold for summer. The lakes did not score swimmers. In fact, my beanie was on my head for almost the whole time – day and night. My coat never came off once, and most of every day I wore both my padded coat and my Event Anorak to keep out the wind. I also wore an icebreaker the entire trip.


I would like to say that a positive aspect of this weather was moody mist and dark, interesting clouds. However, I must say that I found the sky difficult to photograph this trip: it was just a little bit too light, and, as I was on a supposedly long expedition, I hadn’t brought my full frame camera with GND filters to darken things down. I struggled to avoid washed out areas.


I didn’t get to climb any new mountains or tread any new paths, but, hey, a party that only has people you know is not a bad party. I reclimbed things, and explored areas that I knew more thoroughly. I also got to meet new people – both in our group, and amongst the others who happened to be camped near us, or whom we met on the track. Some along the track that I met wanted to complain about the mud, but, really, it is not such a bad thing, as it helps keep the numbers down, and to deter many of the people who couldn’t actually cope with the real Western Arthurs, the high, ferocious, untamed bit “up there”. (The severity of Moraine A also helps in this regard). Take away that mud, attract even larger droves of people in there, and the place will be ruined. It’s already overcrowded to a disturbing degree.


In the course of our trip, we encountered a walker without a map, one without any kind of a rain jacket, people using a kind of tarp-shelter rather than a tent, many people who didn’t own thermal or woollen gear but were relying on cotton garments to keep them warm, people who didn’t own down bags, and many, many people who had no idea of the weather reports. This area is too popular for some of its users’ own good, I fear. If you want to visit the Western Arthurs, do yourself a favour and go to a reputable bushwalking shop to discuss your gear, and please also consult the excellent website run by the Bureau of Meteorology, both before you leave, and in high places when up there, so you can get an update. Knowing what to expect, and reacting appropriately to bad reports, is very important. It goes without saying that a map and compass are essential. This is not continental Europe: there are no cute yellow signs up there, and there are no splashes of red and white paint on rocks. When the mist closes in, it is very easy to get totally disoriented, even with a compass! And once the bad weather arrives, you may not even meet anyone who can help you, as they will be either sheltering in a tent somewhere, or they will have cleared out, to try again another time.

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Norold 2017 Jan

Mt Norold. There in my inbox was an email about a trip to Mt Norold. Mt What??? Never heard of it. Curious, I read further: plane to Melaleuca, boat up the inlet and across Bathurst Harbour, where I had never been, and then, the opportunity to explore a truly remote area of this island state. Yes please. I signed up.


Flight in
Day 1. The boat trip was very bouncy and rather wet; visibility was poor, and conditions were cool enough for me to wear both my padded and Goretex jackets. The wind was building, but, hey, we were underway, and I was happy. Progress upwards was easy, through low buttongrass, but we made slow advancement as a group, and so had failed to make our intended destination when a halt was called to the day. At this stage, we were only about 320ms above sea level, on a ridge which would, on the morrow, lead us to the top of Mt Wilson. We had nine-day packs, and some were finding the going to be tough. Three twenty metres asl is still high enough to offer fine views (if the clouds cleared); this was a pretty nice spot to stay in for the night, and offered us enough shelter from the quite strong wind. I sucked water out of a yabby hole and a small soak to fill my container, and settled down to cook my freeze-dried meal.


Day 2. The scenery remained lovely, with easy, ridgetop walking, although the outlines of surrounding mountains were murky in the slight haze. The summit of Mt Wilson was slow in the taking, and I could see we would not make our intended destination of Lake Eucryphia. (I later discovered this was no sad loss – the sides were steep and bosky). Mt Norold looked very imposing, and a long way off from the summit of Wilson.
Thus, when we were in lower-lying ground between Wilson and our goal,  our leader decided it would be best if we dropped our packs and climbed Norold without them, and return later to pitch tents somewhere in that area.


Oh the joy of climbing without a heavy pack. It took no time at all to summit Norold unburdened. On top, two guys said they’d like to explore more mountains to the north, and have a look at the lake we were no longer camping at. Who would like to come too? Only Louise, it seemed. Off we set while the others returned to collect their packs and set up home for the night. It was now very, very windy.
With a walk across the ridgeline to our goal that was only decked in ankle-high vegetation, this excursion was sheer pleasure. We climbed an unnamed mountain that we christened Mount Unloved. I don’t know why it is thus uncared for, as it offered grandstand views of the Western and Eastern Arthurs, and a whole lot more – the best vista of the whole trip – and is far superior to, say, Richea Peak. The wind even abated momentarily while we were there so we could enjoy sitting and staring at our takings.


That night, we got our only sunset of the trip. Next morning, the only sunrise. Several of us sat huddled in the freezing wind, armed with several coats, waiting for the sun to go down. The wind was so biting that only two of us remained for the pinking of the sky. Next day, I was a solo observer of sunrise.
Day 3. The hour surrounding sunrise on this day was one of my favourite hours in the whole trip. I’ll let the photos do the talking:


Full of joy, I returned to the tents (I had climbed back up the ridge to take these shots), worried that I might now be running late. Today, we would descend to the Old River, to only 40ms asl, thus losing the beautiful height we had laboured so hard to achieve.

From the ridge, this descent looked stunningly steep – and it proved to be every bit as scarped as it appeared from above.


It was a tough climb, sometimes using trees instead of ground to get ourselves down, sometimes sliding down several metres of almost vertical ground, letting ourselves drop off little cliff-faces, hoping the landing would be OK.


Karen, pondering the drop to the river below, which you can see snaking through the valley.
That night was memorable, and I don’t think anyone got much (any?) sleep. It was quite frightening for some of us, actually. The strong wind of bedtime, grew to be an uncontrolled monster by the early hours, and was gusting with such force that the tent fabric was thrashing around, and making piercing whip-cracking noises every few minutes. The poles bent over towards our faces and then snapped back up, untamed wild beasts that took on a life of their own. Meanwhile, it was raining heavily. I know what it is to have a tent snap in the middle of the night in rain, so lay staring at my pole, willing it to be strong. Others were doing the same.
At 4.15 a.m., a humongous gust snapped the poles of two tents (affecting the four inhabitants). The two near me got sopping wet coping with the breakage. All four had to do repair work in the dark with rain slashing down. It was not a joyous occasion. We were all exhausted next morning, as with or without a collapse of your temporary home, the noise was not something you could sleep through. Rain continued. Our leader, full of wisdom, called a rest day (Day 5) to try to recover, and to dry out, if possible.
Day 6. See natureloverswalks.com/ripple-mountain for a blog on the climbing of Ripple Mountain.
Day 7. This was also a rest day. The rivers were swollen from all the rain, but the forecast indicated the waters may subside a bit. Our route was to take us over two rivers if we were to complete our circuit, so we needed to sit this mini flash-flood out if we wanted our other goals. Voting and discussion took place about whether to cross, how to do it safely, and what to do if we didn’t. (See photo of the swollen Old River in the blog link above). We listened to the light patter of rain on tent for much of the day.


Karen climbs
Day 8. Retracing our steps won out in the end. Several of us were unwilling to take the risks involved in a double crossing of unknown depths and strength, involving the possible (probable?) risk of hypothermia attached, especially if equipment got accidentally wet. We didn’t have appropriate gear for such a crossing.


Maureen the wonder woman, with 760 peak bagger’s points, and 155 Abels to her credit.
Up, up, up we climbed, some people hurting themselves trying to haul their bodies up the precipitous and slippery slopes. Then, down and up Mt Wilson once more, and part way down her ridge until some members of our group could just not take any more. We stopped in a spot that was pretty sheltered, considering the conditions, and had the last real meal of the trip. We had left a food stash on the other side of the river, but we would not reach it. Time to tighten the belts.


Dale, our noble leader
Day 9. On this day, we completed the descent, and chose spots for our tents on the banks of Bathurst Harbour to wait for the boat, which we hoped would rescue us early seeing’s we had no real food left. Meanwhile, this spot was so beautiful I thought paucity of food was inconsequential, and began to hope the ferry wouldn’t appear. I got my wish … and a beautiful sunset as well.



Day 10. One of the most hilarious nights of my life.
Now, this was primarily a group of pretty experienced and intelligent people, so it’s not as if we never considered the possibility that Bathurst Harbour would be tidal. It was partly tidal, we were told. We were also sensible enough to observe the water during the day. Low tide had been at 8pm that night, and we had arrived mid-morning. High tide should have been at around 1.30, just after lunch. It was nothing to worry about. We camped on magnificent grassy verges, replete with magic, crystal clear pools.


I had the most beautiful afternoon, lazing around my tent, watching the delightful private bath right outside my vestibule (it had been raining for days – of course the pools were full), and later, walking around the point for sunset, as above.
At 2.30ish, I got up to go to the toilet. My torch was on, so I saw nothing beyond its cone of glow. However, I love seeing the stars at night, so went back out without light to gaze at the Milky Way. Wow!!!! And there lay another wow: water was up to the edge of my vestibule (I could now see, seeing’s my vision was no longer reduced to a torch sector). I looked across to Maureen’s tent. Hm. It was half way up hers, but I knew she was awake, and she said nothing, so I assumed all was well. I did my maths: high tide would be 8 + 6.5 = 2.30 in the morning. OK. We were now exactly at high tide, so I’d stay awake to make sure everything (like, my maths) was correct, but all seemed to be in order.


Maureen’s island tent (at 4.15)
Shortly afterwards, Dale came along to tell us to evacuate. His tent was fully flooded, everything sopping, and he feared the worst for all of us. Maureen and I, however, elected to stay put, and “watch and wait”.
Twenty minutes later, the water was still rising, so we cleared our gear up into the trees, and sat on a rock together to watch the show.


5a.m.shot
Actual high tide came at 4.15, so we did a lot of waiting and chatting and laughing, as we thought this was terribly funny. When we realised from our little rock marker that the tide was at last on the wane, Maureen made us a hot chocolate, as neither of us wanted to return to our tents: Maureen, because hers was still inches deep in water (inside); I, because, although my inner was dry, the vestibule was still pretty sodden, and it was now so late, or early if you wish, that I wanted to hang around and photograph the dawn. We continued our vigil.


5.30. Pre-dawn glow
No one slept that night. I think Maureen and I got the most fun out of it. The boat didn’t rescue us until after 3pm, so there was plenty of time to dry out. We’ll have fodder for laughter together over that one for years to come.


Did I mention that the flight home was pretty good? (Federation Peak. That’s the one you don’t want to fall off!!)

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ITALY Dolomites AV2 (alta via duo) 2013 A broken sternum

Italy, hiking, AV2, Dolomites: a sad case of a broken sternum
I was most surprised when tidying up my blog – now that I can at last see things alphabetically due to changing to wordpress – to notice that there were a few omissions in my posts, such as the AV2 trek of 2013. Perhaps the fact that I struggled to do it with a broken sternum, and, in the end, retreated home in a great deal of pain, has something to do with forgetting to write it up at the time. Don’t worry. I remember it well.


Day 1. I began this trek rather suddenly, and unintentionally. I knew I had hurt myself badly in a fall at the end of AV1, and wanted a rest, but at the YHA Bressanone, I met a nice girl who was about to start her AV2 that day, and she urged me to start with her. I could find no compelling reason not to. I had some tasks to do first, so we agreed to meet at the top, at the place whose view is pictured above. Despite my pain and worry, I was thrilled to be high in the sky once more (at the Plosenhuette).


Sunrise the next morning, as seen above and below, only served to further excite me, and make me happy that I had begun on this route.


Day 2 was a short one, which left us room for doing a spot of climbing not too far from the hut. There were two mountains we could choose from, both of which had via ferrata as part of the climb. We were both feeling a bit nervous about these, so chose the easier: Francis had had a frightening experience on one without a harness in Slovenia, and my ribs were aching badly enough so that I could not trust my arms for anything. We both decided to leave tricky climbing for sections where it was compulsory rather than optional, as here.


Hut porn along the way, Day 2.
That night, we sat next to an unusual pair, a German-speaking man and a very old English speaker.  I wondered how a man his age (Ray, aged 80) had got to the hut, which did not appear to have road or Seilbahn access. He’d walked there, he said (like us). We talked of climbing our mountain that afternoon. Yes, he’d climbed too, he said. Which one? The hard one. At this stage, I roared with laughter, that two supposedly fit younger things had not dared to go up this mountain (Francis was 23), but this octogenarian had done it with ease. He had my immediate and undying respect, and was to be a role model and inspiration to me, not only for the rest of that trip, but at later times of my life when I have felt wussish. I also learned that the duo was related: Ray was Herwart’s father in law; this trip was his birthday present. Wow. I would love to think that I could still climb mountains at 80. Ray gives me hope. What a fantastic birthday present!!


Day 3. After another glorious sunrise, we set out for the next, rather frightening phase of the journey. Why frightening? More via ferrata? No. The fear was in a section that had no help at all. I learned that I loved the via ferrata, as there was something to hold onto. The section that unnerved me was about 15 cms wide, on loose shale, with no handholds at all, and about 400ms drop off to the side. I trod tentatively, yet caught up first to a Swiss couple, and then a gang of Italians. They all moved to the side to let me through on a hairpin bend. But with a 15 cm path, there is NO room for passing, and I was jelly with terror and didn’t want to pass anybody anyway. Please, please just let me stay here in the middle of you all, I pleaded. On we trudged. I did not look left or right, but concentrated on treading exactly where the girl in front of me had trodden, figuring that if she stayed alive, maybe I could too. I wanted to vomit I was so petrified.
Eventually we got to the pass. They wanted to be photographed with me, because I was “so brave”. This is the biggest joke ever. How deceptive appearances can be. Apparently I am brave because I “dare” to travel alone. It’s hard to smile when you want to vomit, but I managed somehow.
That night I talked with Ray about his route. He did not only what I have described, but then climbed a steep mountain in the snow afterwards, as he hadn’t done enough. I had had more than a lifetime’s terror in a single hour. I explored flatter lands in the afternoon.


Piz de Puez, above Rifugio Puez. Nightfall, day 3.
I climbed to this spot to photograph sunset, and sat up there chatting to Herwart. In 2015 I would climb the mountains you see, but this year I was too insecure with my unreliable torso muscles. I hadn’t really been using my upper body yet, so all was going OK.


Day 4. The following morning, I farewelled Ray and Herwart: our paths were sadly diverging. Off I set alone into the mist that had now formed to wend my way along and then down to the beautiful Passo Gardena, and later to try my hand at the first proper via ferrata on our track, that en route to Rifugio Pisciadu.


This path upwards was very steep, and challenged my ribs (assuming that was my problem. I had not been to a doctor), but tugging on the ferrata did not take them into catastrophic dimensions, so I was OK.


Passo Gardena, living up to the garden of flowers connoted by its name. My route lies up one of those chutes ahead, to the rocks on top.


Passo Gardena is the bit of green way down there. This funnel is my route up.


Rifugio Pisciardu is a very beautiful place, which is why I returned to re-see it (and the AV2) in 2015, and I will return again, soon I hope.
The next day, day 5, I went to the next hut, staring all the while at Piz Boe, which I was feeling too scared to climb in case it tugged on my ribs. Just as I was procrastinating by climbing something different, two stick figures appeared on the icy snow way below me (I was climbing on the rocks beside the snow, as I didn’t dare use the snow). As they got closer, I heard someone call my name. These brave and daring sticks were none other than Ray and Herwart, on their way to climb Piz Boe.
All of a sudden I had the courage to climb it too. I said I’d climb the one I had now set out for, but would give chase and hopefully see them by the summit. Just knowing that Ray was doing it, that somewhere on the mountain was a man aged 80, who was going to the summit with more assurance than I had, meant that I could do it. We met on the summit, and there had our final farewell. I have not seen them since, but have sure not forgotten them.


Can you see that bit of rope lying on the snow? That scrap to hang on to while you lower yourself over the precipice? That there was my undoing. Down I went, even feeling quite confident now, but my feet slipped on the ice, and I came thumping down on my derrière, still clinging to the rope for dear life. I yelped with pain. The rocks heard my call. In a single moment I went from maybe 40% usage of my arms to zero. Oh howl. I had worsened my injury big time. Nonetheless I managed to get down to the valley (Passo Pordoi), and to the friendly, fabulous hotel there, with a big bed and fluffy towels and the most sumptuous food imaginable. These should cure me, yes? Unfortunately, no.


Day 6. Not quite undeterred, but not yet completely beaten, I set out for the next refuge. However, when walking along this path, I knew I was in monster pain. After less than two hours’ walking, I came to a refuge that had fantastic smells coming out of the kitchen. I thought if I stayed here, with that food and this view of the Marmalada, maybe I would be better the next day. Did they have a bed? One, if I was prepared to go cramped in a full dorm of males. Sure.
The rest of that morning, and then all afternoon, I explored tiny hills instead of mountains, and watched flowers and marmots. The simplest of climbing tasks was dangerous and beyond me as I had no upper body at all. All of a sudden, these previously simple mountains became hideously challenging.


Day 7. The following day, I tried to put on my pack, but even that simple act killed me. I had to admit defeat. I turned around and headed for the valley from which I’d come. I phoned my husband who phoned our travel agent to arrange my early return home. The insurance company insisted on an x-ray. A guest at the hotel offered to take me to hospital. Oh dear, I have broken my sternum, but not punctured my lungs, so I may fly home. No wonder carrying a pack hurt so much. The doctor said I must have had an almighty crash, as sternums are rather hard to break, being rather resilient and important bones. Ah, I have a very strong camera that was strapped to my chest, and fell at speed, I informed him.


Here is sunrise on my final morning of the AV2. How I love the Dolomiti. My memories are of glorious mountains, of magic sunrises and sunsets, of friends made and a feeling of wonder and well-being. I know as a fact that I was in pain, but that fact is entirely academic and has no effect on the positive emotions I feel if anyone so much as mentions the word “Dolomites”.

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Spires 2017 Conical Mt, Shining Mt, Pokana Peak

The Spires. Jan 2017


First night on the Spires trip, camping on the Pleiades.
I never set out for The Spires confidently expecting to reach the goal area, let alone the summit (despite our excellent leader). Too many things can go wrong in such unforgiving, wild country; too many others whom I deeply respect have failed one or more times to get there. Weather conditions, for a start, can wrest victory from your grasp, as the trek in is long and hard, and weather can make a huge difference when that is the case. But if you don’t set out, you haven’t a hope of succeeding, so our packs were on our backs, ready to give it a try, and if we didn’t get there, hey, we would have a fabulous experience in the wilderness anyway.


First night on the Spires trip, camping on the Pleiades. 
Certainly, things didn’t begin in a way that engendered hope had I only been there to achieve summits. We had a few glitches on the first morning getting ourselves into position that set our programme back half a day, so we only made it to a saddle part way up the steep haul onto the Pleiades Range before we were obliged to end the day. Here there was camping to be had: well, there was fresh, running water the other side of the saddle, and the ground was kind of level. There was button grass everywhere, and bushes that did not respond at all to my request that they flatten themselves for my comfort. It was impossible to cook in such a bumpy, bushy vestibule, but the weather was mild, and we congregated on rocks to prepare our meals. The mood was jovial. Sunset that night was wonderful. I had an unexpectedly good night’s sleep.


Looking along the spine of the Pleiades.

Day 2.
The following morning, we set out to finish our climb up to the Pleiades Ridge. This is very, very steep country and the bush was thick, the going hard.  Some members struggled, but thanks to a team effort, we all reached the ridge, and continued on our way along it, which seemed fine enough until we hit the final cliffy mound (huge) near the end before we would make a slight “left hand turn” at a different knob, continuing towards Conical Mountain (heading NNW, while the ridge leading to Pokana Peak deviated east). But first, as said, we needed to get around the final knob before the “intersection”.


Looking along the spine of the Pleiades.
We chose right. There was even a pad of sorts. It was so steep, I was grunting as I pulled myself up, and was accused of trying to have a tennis match. The last time I grunted like that was climbing up to Slatters Peak in early 2013. I’m not sure if it was the steepness (and extreme weight of my pack), or just the fact that my protracted illness of the last three months has robbed me of too much precious condition, but, whatever the cause, each major heave upwards elicited a noise worthy of Maria Sharapova (well, not quite that bad). This part of the route had a few spots where there was a very steep drop below our ledge. It’s funny how different varieties of exposure have altering reactions from people. Because there were trees below, and bushes to cling to, I felt fine, although, of course, I did feel the need to be cautious. Somehow the trees under me reduced any sense of great threat.


Looking down to the lake for night 2.
There is a small lake below the ridgeline after one has waved goodbye to Pokana Peak, and this was to be our campsite for the second night. As we descended to it, I noticed a lovely little beach with small sandy shore far below and hoped to camp there. Unfortunately, this spot was a bog, with a squelching, sinking vestibule area and button-grass lumps in abundance where my body should lie, but there was nowhere else to go by now, so I pitched and hoped it wouldn’t rain, which would turn my little depressed area into a tarn. I cooked on a nearby rock, joined  by Johnny, whose tent was nearby. Our rocky kingdom was fine.


Rohan and David survey lakes two and three, beyond our own one, on Day 3

Day 3.
At last, after three days’ steady, and fairly exhausting climbing and pulling and heaving and high-stepping, we were heading for our first actual mountain (still laden with our heavy packs), and, joy of joys, it was an Abel: Conical Mountain. It still looked like a giant ahead as we snailed our way towards it. I was very happy to at last have a summit under my belt, and an Abel at that, but the big one lay ahead.


Me, above Lake Curly, looking towards Mt Curly.
Shining Mountain is lower than Conical. That should give heart, but the drop between the two did not. There was more height to gain, and more bush to fight for my out-of-condition body. We celebrated the views from Shining fairly early in the afternoon. The day was now very hot, and progress was like a pyrrhic victory in a battle.


Dale on a fun spot beyond the summit of Conical Mountain.
Shortly after summitting this one, our noble leader pointed out that descent into the valley way, way below (almost out of sight, the land was so steep), would be a hot and unpleasant affair on such a day. He said it would be possible to camp up there and still climb The Spires on the morrow.


Shining Mountain shelf campspot. The Spires lie ahead there across the valley.
Now, considering the fact that I was of the opinion that if God wanted to choose an earthly spot for heaven, He could hardly go better than the one in which we were then seated, this was joy to my ears. The view was fabulous; we were high in the sky with a sense of infinite space all around and mountainous views to die for. Yes, yes, please: I wanted to sleep just here, to linger in this place and soak it all in. THIS is why I bushwalk. This is the reason I come, and I did not want to go away. We stayed.


I chose a secluded spot beyond the other tents and enjoyed scenery that filled me with joy and peace. My spirit soared with pleasure. This is The Sublime, not just the beautiful. Spiritual pleasure in such a place is not confined to indigenous people. Wilderness is important to the soul of all of us: the chance to be in a place of the infinite and be still in a way that cities do not allow. My church is up here, not in a dark, musty building made by humans.


I wandered about, chatting, but mostly I sat and stared, just enjoying the existential pleasure of being. I no longer cared whether I made any more summits. I felt complete.



Day 4.

After a glorious start to the day, the climb down to Reverend Creek and then up to The Font was bothersome, done in temperatures that told you swimming would be a much more pleasant pastime than this. However, we were there to climb, not swim (that would come later for the Brave).


We dumped our packs at The Font, and began the serious business of our actual mission: to climb The Spires. But first, the vote was to climb Flame Peak on the way, to score two easy points in case we couldn’t get the Big One, which was much harder.


Unbelievably, my camera let me down at this part of the day, and refused to allow me to shoot. The others suggested that the heat was the problem, and they were right: it functioned again that night, but for these two peaks, the object of my quest, I was effectively cameraless.


But let me describe the route up The Spires. From the Flame-Spires saddle, we descended around the face of The Spires, curling right, until we found a ledge that led to an internal saddle within the Spires summit. The going in this part was easy, with plenty of bushes to grab. It was even shady. Hoorah. It was fabulous to be free of our packs at last. I felt so light and agile.


And now the photos move straight to sunset, due to the broken camera.
After the internal saddle, the fun of the final climb began.  We curled left, to be faced with a sloping rock that had no handholds for safety. We had been warned. Some crawled; some wormed. We all got there. It didn’t last long. First object overcome. Had anyone fallen, it would probably have been fatal, as the drop, although not of Feder proportions by any means, was probably enough to be one’s final acrobatic act.


After the slope, the rest was fun. Yes, the drop was now monstrous, but the handholds were secure, and I just didn’t look at the drop, so can’t tell you anything about it, although I could feel Great Space below. With security of holds, it didn’t matter. Eleven set out for the final climb. Eleven made the summit. Fantastic job, oh leader (who, having been there before, and now sporting some gastric bug, did not accompany us).


It was time for another vote. Should we go back the way we came and face the slopey bit again, or do a circuit continuing on towards False Dome, maybe climb it too, and come back that way? We voted for a circuit, so off we set. The saddle before the first internal mound offered no way down. Nor the second. After much climbing and humming, we voted to reclimb The Spires from this new direction, and retrace our steps. It was a fun adventure, and a good way to fill the afternoon. Soon enough, we were at the campsite above The Font, choosing our real estate for the next two nights and enjoying the views this place had to offer (tremendous).

Day 5.

This was to be a packless day, climbing Innes High Rocky, a mountain that pleased me greatly because of its stunningly remote position. Dale – one of our more adventurous members, and an amazing team member who averted many an attempt at team failure with his admirable ability (and astonishing willingness) to carry other people’s packs when they were struggling – went even more remote than that, and climbed Philps Lookout as well. The rest of us found Innes High Rocky to be exhausting enough on a day that felt well over thirty, and in terrain that offered very little water, but button grass higher than my waist to overcome for huge stretches.


One of my chief memories of this day is of us all crouching beside walls of rock, trying to shelter in tiny patches of shade. I even voluntarily sat on a scoparia bush, as that was the only way I could get some shade. This is not a hobby I will pursue. The day was ten hours long, even though the actual climb only took five and a half hours. The breaks were needed!! I enjoyed the chance to linger longer in a place that I will probably never go to again.


Innes High Rocky still a way off yet.

Day 6.

The Font
Now we entered the business end of the trip. Camped up high, we had access to BoM readings, and the weather for Tuesday was pretty bad; for Wednesday, absolutely deplorable. We had two days to get out to beat this change. If we could reach the Lake Gordon shore by late Monday afternoon, there was a chance Andrew could get us all out in his flimsy (sorry Andrew) dingy before the projected winds made the lake perilously rough. It was now Sunday morning.


Off we set, on a mission, and successfully walked two days at once, in what was a long day. This day was so windy, I had insurmountable trouble walking in anything resembling a straight line, being constantly thrown to the side by sudden gusts. I found it exhausting fighting the wind like that all day. We camped this night at the lake of our second night.

Day 7.
On we pushed in our race against the weather, but not so fast that we had to omit Pokana Peak, the final mountain, and Abel, of our quest. It was grand to be once more, albeit it only momentarily, free of our packs.


Pokana summit view
The day was long, the work was dehydrating, with the yabby holes from which we’d drunk on our way in now almost fully dried up by the way out. Valiantly the group pressed on, well aware of the penalty of easing off.

Andrew’s first trip across the Lake was dicey, and he feared it would be his last for the day, leaving a herculean task for the morrow, but he realised he could make another, and yet another, so did. My tent was already up when the boat returned, but I was neither worried nor disappointed – although I did brace myself during the night for a possible long haul at this spot. I knew that on the Wednesday, if still stranded, I would not be able to cook in the winds that had been forecasted, so prepared mentally for no warm meals as well. Meanwhile, the lakeside spot was rather fun, and I cooked a huge dinner in celebration that I didn’t need to eat abstemiously any longer (Laksa soup, “roast chicken” – so they say – plus apple pie for two for dessert). I had enough food still to last most emergencies, unless they endured for about a week. My rucksack still had over 2 kgs of extra food (I suffer from food angst, so had taken a little too much to cover for this), plus I had left a stash at the lakeshore in case.

Next morning, most unexpectedly, we heard a boat at 6 a.m., and saw Andrew, somewhat hassled by the emergency of the situation and the task of getting two more boatloads out before things became impossible. Under deep stress, knowing what he knows about boats and lakes and winds, he expertly handled this final exit. I have to confess to being terrified as we roared our way through closely placed dead trees in the lake at frightening speed (sorry for the lack of trust, Andrew, but I am not used to doing this). My only consolation was that I believed Andrew wanted to remain in life himself, so would not take unreasonable risks. He knew what he was doing. We were out. Twelve had set out, twelve arrived safely and successfully home. What a fabulous trip that will last in our memories for as long as we live. After everything was packed up, we drove eagerly to the Possum Shed to celebrate our expedition with Real Food.

Please note: this is in a category listed as “Distance Trail”. It is there because it covers 8-10 days’ worth of distance. Note, however, that there is NO TRAIL. This is pure wilderness, and needs expert map reading and much more to be undertaken.