Category: mountain

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Nereus trip 2018 Jan

Nereus trip, on a shockingly hot clutch of days, late Jan 2018.


My mother taught me that if I don’t have anything nice to say, then I shouldn’t say anything at all. There are necessarily a lot of very “not nice” (mild understatement) things one could say about the whole Nereus area since the last fire wrought havoc on the forest and left us with thick, prickly, disgustingly uncomfortable scrub which occurs in tiring and lengthy bands. My legs stung from the scoparia injections, and I tore my boots, my gaiters, my gloves and my famous cow pants. (I also got the second flat tyre in seven days on the way home). Leading the gang through the bosky barricades was energy depleting.

We were not helped by the fact that the days were stinking hot and water was all but non-existent. Even the nice big tarns on Walled Mountain were dangerously – ominously – empty and murky. The yabby holes further on were mostly dried out. Whoops. I’m disobeying mum’s rule.

Nereus from Urquarts Messa.
Here are some photographic highlights. Now THESE are indeed worth talking about. Stifling days can be followed by evenings to die for, and we got them. Hoorah.


Tim and I climbed Urquarts Messa nice and early, so were on top by 6.45 a.m., a beautiful time of day to see what it had to offer.

A tarn with cool, deep water, found after a long, hot day on the way back. This was possibly the most physically pleasing moment of the trip. 
I love the way that memory gradually erases the bad bits, turning them into theoretical facts of little emotive weight. I am left with my photographic highlights ….. It is now a bit over a week since I was there, and already these photos have helped to mollify my negative reaction to the trip. I have realised that it was a very beautiful one, with some glorious moments.


And there were moments to sit outside the tent and reflect.


I find it interesting that social factors, however, are the ones that determine the extent to which I look back on a trip with delight or mere tolerance. When you have a good team on board, even scoparia and can be fun.

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Oakleigh 2018 Jan

Mt Oakleigh. Jan 2018
A trip I was going to be on was cancelled due to bad weather, so I determined this was the weekend I would sleep on Mt Oakleigh. It would rain on my way up, but, hopefully, I’d get good views next morning. I checked the wind forecast, which was fine, and, just on the off-chance, dashed off a message to one of my IG friends, who said she’d like to come. An adventure was on.

I have done a bit of waterfall bagging with this friend, and we have fun together. I realised as we progressed along our way on Saturday, however, that this was her first overnighter with a tent, that she was feeling a bit nervous, and that perhaps climbing a mountain on your first attempt at sleeping in the wild was maybe a bit too wild. I offered her the alternative that if she was too worried about the conditions up there (they didn’t look at all friendly from below), then I’d go with her to New Pelion Hut, and then climb the mountain alone. No, no. She wanted to come. On we continued. It was nice that she trusted me to keep her alive, as a wild mountain is a rather confronting beast when you meet it face to face. Secretly, I was worried about her lack of equipment in the face of the cold weather up there, but I was also pretty sure I could help her through a crisis. Her lycra tights were not keeping her at all warm. She had no beanie, and no spare shoes, but she did have dry socks for overnight, and a decent sleeping bag. My tent takes two at a pinch, so if she was freezing, I could invite her into mine to warm up.

Her voice became a bit more anxious when she realised that I had not camped up here before, and that I didn’t have a clue whether we would find a spot, as I don’t know anyone who has ever camped there. “What happens if there’s nowhere to camp?”, she enquired. “Then we come back down,” I replied, which was not, I presume, good news when you are already very tired, but that is always my plan.
“What is there’s no water on top?”
“Then I come back down to collect it for both of us.” That answer was more welcome. “That’s why I keep pointing out sources of water when we pass them, as I am timing how long from the last seen water to the top in case I do have to do that. And I have never yet failed to find some way of pitching two tents on top. One just has to be creative.”
That sounded good, but there does surely, have to be a first time when there is absolutely nothing. I didn’t add that.

The conditions for pitching up there were not exactly five-star quality, and my friend quite justifiably wanted to be near me for security, so we were looking for flat ground for two that did not exist. We found the best available real estate, which would not have sold for much as it was merely a patch of bush where the scrub was not too prickly or tall. We threw our tents over the bushes, pinning the corners to the ground, and somehow managed to get a quarter decent pitch that would stay up all night. Both of us had tent floors that followed an artistic wave pattern. I actually found my wave quite comfy, as it was at least soft, and one of the ups acted as a pillow.

It was almost a relief that sunset was a fizzer, as we both had truly frozen feet, and the only thing either of us could think of was the joy of taking off wet boots and socks and getting into a dry sleeping bag. If anything good happened to the mountains out there at dusk, we don’t know about it.

The wind flapped our tents all night. Neither of us got any substantial sleep, so the alarms for sunrise at 5.15 were not exactly welcome. I poked my head out. “Na. No colour. I’m ‘sleeping’ for another 20.”
At 5.35 there was a tiny hint of pink, so I felt obliged to go out and see if anything nice could happen. It did, and we were both happy with our results. Now that she had survived her first night out, and on a mountain at that, my friend was very happy. We both walked well on the return journey, and were back at the car before midday, keen for our next adventure. I learned that after a night like that, I should have cappuccino before driving the solo section. I fell asleep at the wheel a mere kilometre from home. Luckily, I was fighting sleep so hard that I was only doing about 35 kms/hr just in case, and, more luckily, there was no oncoming traffic, as my steering swerved me to the right of the road once I dropped off.  It is very, very unnerving to do this. You have the insane belief that if you fight sleep, you can win. I am still in a bit of shock, even though no harm came of it.

Another sad theory that was tested this weekend was the one told to me by Telstra, namely, that 000 would work anywhere, as it uses a different wavelength. I got a flat tyre on the drive in, and needed RACT. There was no reception. 000 did not work. You are no doubt laughing at a stupid, stereotypical woman who can’t change a tyre. I know what to do, but there are a few problems: (i) I am not strong enough to pull the spare tyre out of its hole (ii) I cannot push the spanner to undo the nuts. I stood on it. Nothing happened. I jumped on it. Nothing (I weighed 43 kgs when I checked at Christmas [before the pudding ha ha]). I went to the very edge to get maximum leverage, and only then could I begin to budge it whilst jumping on it. The insurmountable problem, however, is that if I did somehow get the old wheel off, there is no way on this earth that I could lift the new wheel into place. Luckily, a good samaritan (well, two) happened to drive up (Ashley and Noelene), and they helped me, whilst instructing me at the same time, but realised along with me that if alone, I would not be capable of getting out of this fix, and the problem that 000 does not actually work all over Tasmania is rather daunting. There are places where one could starve hoping for a good samaritan to drive nearby.

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Ossa 2017 Dec

Mt Ossa Dec 2017.

I was mesmerised by my visit to Mt Ossa back in December 2013, when I took a Swedish friend up there to sleep on the summit. What astonished me, amongst other things, was the beauty of the flowers along the way. (I was also captivated by the brilliant views, of course.) I hadn’t realised December was such a magic month in that area, and vowed I’d return with a better camera and a tripod for mach 2 some day. Unfortunately, it’s taken four years to find the opportunity.

This time, there was to be no Elin, and, worse, no Bruce. Off I set anyway, not sure how things would be. I can’t predict my moods these days.

The first part went pretty well, and I was in at Pelion Hut in under three hours, despite my heavy camera gear, and definitely ready for lunch. I hadn’t got away from the carpark until 10 o’clock, so it was not an early lunch. Light drizzle had meant that stops along the way were not really wanted, so I was in need of a good rest as well as a decent feed. I ate my salad roll with gusto. Drizzle changed to steady rain. The world turned dark grey. My spirits are not buoyant enough to deal with that at present. I decided I should turn around and go home, and count this as a good training exercise. I didn’t want anything in this weather other than sulking chez moi with my dog.

I set out for home, but then decided that was silly. Set out for the pass and decided I really didn’t want that either. Such vacillation. To and fro I went with each change off mind, trying to imitate a laden yoyo. In the end, I decided that I should start climbing Pelion Gap, to stop looking so stupid, and to try to warm up with the height gain before I made any big decisions (I was by now freezing with all that sitting around). Once I was underway, I talked myself into believing that I should at least go as far as the pass, even if not the summit, and maybe tomorrow would be more inspiring than today.

I slowed down the pace and ambled up the slope, enjoying the mossy banks beside the little creeklets, flowing happily no doubt due to the rain. The lush forest was pleasant in the misty conditions. Right near the top, just before one bursts out into the more open area, I had the pleasure of encountering a group of six LWC (Launceston Walking Club) members who had camped the previous night at the hut, and had that day climbed Ossa in the mist. In answer to my query about flowers, they reported that if I went high enough, I would find some (I had been deeply disappointed by the lack of them lower down – part of my general despondence). It was lovely to see people I know and to get warm hugs – and inspiriting to be told the flowers I wanted were to be found after all.

I didn’t stop at the gap, but kept climbing through the drizzle, in search of flowers. I found, I saw, I photographed. A strong wind joined the rain, and it was far from pleasant – and my socks and shoes were pretty sodden – but I was completely happy once I saw the colours of the scoparia flowers I had come for. I managed to find a sheltered spot for my tent – not easy when you’re so high with wind gusting from every direction, or so it seemed – and, in between photographing flowers and sunset, cooked and ate dinner in the protection of my tent.

The sky was not colourful at sunrise (or sunset), although the golden rays of dawn lit the flowers beautifully. I have to admit I was SORELY tempted to stay in my warm sleeping bag and not venture into the frost outside, donning wet socks and shoes to do so, but I told myself I’d gone to a lot of effort to be here, and that really, it would be dumb to stay in my tent. I begrudgingly roused myself and put on every layer of clothing I possessed, wiped away the coating of frost on the tent, and got on with the day’s business. Of course, I was glad I did. One can stay in a warm bed almost any time, but one can only get up and witness sunrise on Tasmania’s highest mountain on very few occasions of one’s whole life. And life, I know, is a privilege not to be squandered.

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Cradle Plateau caper 2017 Dec

Cradle Plateau caper 2017 Dec


I feared that the grieving-type depression (innocuous; natural), which I was definitely experiencing, might morph into clinical depression (serious; dangerous) if I didn’t try to jolt myself out of this state of apathy and fainéant behaviour. Everything has seemed so much effort, and socialising has not been what I have wanted – unless it is with a very select few people, mostly ones who helped search for Bruce or who came to his service, ones who understand my grief. I keep telling myself I am going to join in this or that, … but then I back out of it and take the dog walking, or just stay at home. I haven’t been to Pilates once since Bruce disappeared; haven’t been to any club meetings; haven’t even been to film society. I also haven’t done anything but the most basic of dashes into the supermarket.

So. I decided that this week I had to stop being so apathetic and listless, and change, and thought I should partly achieve this by joining a club walk, and I would even try to return to film society. The latter was not such  a good idea, but the club walk (LWC) was wonderful. There were eight of us, my biggest ‘social experience’ so far, but I was kind of cheating, as several in the group had helped search for Bruce, and several had also been to his service, so it was a nice tame “coming out”. All of them welcomed me back into the club circle.

The weather was not nearly as friendly as the people, but that’s fine by me. My own trip to Nereus (a five-day expedition) I had had to cancel (well, postpone)  due to five days of forecasted horror, but I was sure a mere two days of howling wind and rain and no thick bush would be just fine. It was. Perhaps it nearly wasn’t when the wind picked me up in the air and tossed me into a bush. At least it was a bush and not over a cliff. I don’t mind wild nature. There’s something exhilarating about its fury, so long as it doesn’t kill you. Quite often on the Saturday, I had to just stand there, bracing myself against the wind, waiting for “permission” to take the next step – which would occur when this blast took a breath.

We got to our camping spot early in the afternoon, pitched our tents so we’d have a nice home to return to (I snuck some more food in in the interlude), and then we were off again, to climb one named (Artillery) and many nameless Knobs (Knobs one, two and three – how imaginative of us). We had grand vistas with menacing clouds and floating mist. I loved it.

Despite the fairly constant drizzle, we had a lovely protected spot (as in, from the wind), so sat in a circle to cook and eat our dinner under the shelter of an old spreading pencil pine that took some of the droplets for us. Port and chockies helped warm us. Nonetheless, an early departure to bed seemed like a good way to warm up after a while.

Next morning I set my alarm for 5 to photograph the dawn; looked out the tent flap and changed that to 5.30; looked out the tent flap again and just turned the alarm off. I woke again at 6.30. There was still a thick mist, but by now I was feeling guilty about so much time in bed, so got up to inspect my surroundings. I spent a happy hour photographing stormy scenes before I returned for breakfast.

This day we climbed the more imaginatively named (by Steve) Cows Rump, with Loin Tarn (thanks Vanessa) underneath. There were also more unnamed lumps and bumps that we summited and photographed and enjoyed before it was time to wend our way home, ultimately via a coffee shop. Every good bushwalk finishes with coffee and cake. I’m glad I urged myself to get back on my horse before it became too momentous a thing to do.

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Ben Lomond 2017 Sleeping on a summit

Ben Lomond 2017. Sleeping on a summit.


Ben Lomond is a perfect place to go if you live in Launceston, want to sleep in the wilderness, and don’t have a lot of time for driving – or for walking, for that matter. My dear friend Gracey and her fiancé wanted to sleep on a summit with me (well, within five minutes of one), so I decided that we should start simple, seeing’s she doesn’t have a great deal of bush experience, and I wasn’t sure how she’d go with an overnight pack. Start short and work it up is my motto.

Pitching
She and Alex drove up from Hobart after lunch, and then we took a while arranging things (I was lending them quite a bit of equipment, which we needed to sort out – it’s nice owning “too much” stuff [but when it’s useful, how can it be “too much”??]). No doubt we needed to eat a little something before we left … but Ben Lomond is close, so it didn’t matter. Off we finally set up the mountain, into the clouds, arriving up the top at maybe 5 pm. And from where we parked, it really was up and into the clouds, which seemed very romantic and exciting for one’s first sleep on a summit, and Gracey’s tone of voice certainly betrayed that emotion.

Two weeks in a row, I strike a Brocken Spectre. Amazing!
I was a bit nervous as we neared where I wanted to camp, as I hadn’t done a recce, so wasn’t actually sure if we could find two tent spots (or even one) in that rocky terrain. I also didn’t know for sure that we’d find water, and wasn’t carrying any. There was time to get back to the car if all this didn’t work, but I sure hoped we weren’t going to have to go back down and sleep somewhere less exciting. This was looking like fun, and offered glorious views. The other two needed a rest, so I went on ahead to suss out the area and reassure myself that I wasn’t leading them into a rocky jumble of yuk. Hoorah, I found alpine grass, beautiful tarns and space for at least two tents – more if we’d wanted. This was the life. I hurried back to them to tell of our success.

At dinnertime, we carted our gear to the cliff’s edge to eat perched there, staring out at a beautiful sunset unfolding while we chatted.


Sunrise.
In the morning, we scampered over rocks to get a series of excellent vantage points as the sun rose. We had breakfast number one high on the mountain, before driving back to my place for breakfast number two.


We’d had two days’ worth of adventure before most people had had their morning tea break. We’re all excited about the next one, which will be longer, but not too long. One leap at a time, and only a doable one at that. Alex and I have to curb Gracey’s excitement and desire to throw herself at the deep end. If one does that too soon, one can end up hating it, as it becomes too tough to enjoy. We need to build up bush muscles gradually, as with everything.