Category: mountain

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Roland 2017 Apr

Mt Roland Apr 2017


I have wanted to sleep on Mt Roland for a very long time. I think the provenance of the desire dates back to seeing a full moon rising from just behind the mount as the sun was setting to our rear as we gazed. I decided sunset up there would be wonderful. That was many years ago, and somehow the chance has never quite come about.

However, just as I was about to leave the house to drive south and pick up my friend to climb Aldebaran together, I received an email saying he couldn’t come due to an emergency. Meanwhile, I had not been enjoying the turn the weather maps had been taking since we firmed up the arrangement, so now that I wasn’t expected to be there, I decided I didn’t want to drive all that way for a repetition of last weekend’s weather. BUT, there was the fact of my packed rucksack and all my emotions that were geared for a mountain climb. I couldn’t possibly do nothing. On the spur of the moment, I suggested to my husband that we at last try sleeping on Roland, despite the rather abysmal forecast. This one could be a recce, a little practice for the real one. I wouldn’t even take my full-frame camera and tripod for this trip, which was good, as I would be carrying the lion’s share of gear for us.

He said he’d like that, so I spent about ten minutes throwing a few items of clothing into his pack, and off we set. My own rucksack was ready for a three-day trip, so I figured I had enough food and gas for two. Not a great deal of thought went into this packing, but I did double check that I’d tossed in enough warm garments for him.

We didn’t get started until 4.15, which is rather late even for normal people. For a man with Parkinson’s disease, this is way too late for this mountain at this time of year, but we weren’t going to back out of this now. We’d be right, I thought optimistically. After 18 minutes, we reached a junction in the track that said that a fit walker could get to the summit in three hours from that point. Oh. It was now after 4.30, and we had a mere one hour of good light. Well, these signs always overestimate the time. On we pressed, hoping the information was very wrong indeed.

After 67 minutes from the car, we were at O’Neills Creek, and stopped for a quick drink. I looked at the map to see what lay ahead for the immediate future. Hm. Many, many contours lay ahead, although we seemed to have done most of the distance. I looked at the track on the other side of the creek and noted that I could see nothing at all. The forest was so dense there, and the clouds so thick above us, and the hour so very late indeed that there was zero visibility. However, I don’t come into the wilderness to camp three-quarters of the way up a mountain in a claustrophobic little gully. I didn’t really like this spot. I wanted the wide open spaces of the top. On we pressed, now in complete darkness, although it was only 5.25.

Miraculously, given Bruce’s illness, we arrived up the top safe and sound, but it was by now very dark indeed, and not just in the deep forest. However, I could feel the icy air circling around me, and it was exhilarating. This thin air is what I love, even when I can’t see a thing. I can feel the infinite space that exists on the tops. I was happy. There’s not much choice arriving like this in the dark. I had no idea how I was going to find a spot to pitch. We were carrying enough water to do dinner and breakfast (which was absurd, as water was everywhere, but at least collecting it was not one of my duties that night), so were not tied to a water source.

I pitched for us and cooked in the vestibule, and we ate our rehydrated dehydrated food in the warmth of my little Hilleberg, agreeing that this was the life. Howling wind now provided background noise to our conversation. It could be heard all night.

Sunrise next day was far better than one could ever have hoped for, especially given the thick clouds of the previous evening. We enjoyed the spectacle, and then breakfasted before heading for the actual summit, which was very windy indeed, but bearable. That said, it was rather an anticlimax after the start to the day. I am not enamoured of scenery that is almost a monochromatic, dull blue, which is what you get when the sun has disappeared once more behind clouds. On the descent, there were streams and fungi and fabulous conglomerate boulders with ferns in abundance to keep us occupied as we walked the very well-graded track. Lunch at the Raspberry Farm was, as ever, delicious.

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Scorpio 2017 Apr

Mt Scorpio, Apr 2017

Our camping spot, Seven Mile Creek.
Mt Scorpio, stuck out there towards the eastern end of the Western Arthurs, has always had a certain allure. Perhaps it’s Dale Lisson’s photo in the Abels II book, with diminutive, rucksacked figures walking up a knife-edged slope, that gave birth to my feelings towards this mountain, and created a mixture of respect and fear, combined with a  desire to be on it myself one day, and to summit it via that edge.


Climbing Kappa Moraine.
At last I got my chance this Easter. Unfortunately, a different book said not to climb it in wind. Even more unfortunately, the weather whipped up a beauty of a blast, together with mist and rain, on summit day. Oh well. That’s nature. She doesn’t cede to our desires.
On our first day, we had walked in over 20 kms along the MacKay track to Seven Mile Creek. It was not necessary to walk all this way – there is a Kappa shortcut in existence – but we decided we wanted to camp there this time; we’d go up the shortcut on our second visit to the area (we both envisage many visits yet to come). We knew the forecast for summit day was not good, but Angela is a working woman, and sometimes you just have to take what you can get.


We both loved this glimpse of Promontory Lake before the clouds came in. I must go there one day!! And I must climb Carina Peak to its right.
We were quite hopeful as we walked across the plains from our tent site next day (about one hour’s duration). It was cloudy – a little bit misty – but that was all. At last we were climbing, not having a clue if one of the mountains we were looking at was our mountain, or just a kind of prelude to it. We only got glimpses. We could feel the wind increasing, so, short of the top, donned extra layers in case it got wild up there. Good move.


Angela climbing the final stretch.
The Abels book implies that you just kind of walk straight to the top, but when we reached the nearer end, we could see no obvious route up, and certainly not the one of the picture, so I voted that we go to the further end instead. THERE we found the scene I was awaiting. I didn’t want to completely copy Dale’s image, so chose a different angle and asked Angela to please go on so I could photograph her on the dramatic slope. The wind blew more strongly.


Summit “view”.
After she had finished posing for me, Angela ducked left, not enjoying the deadly drop down the cliffs to the east, and heeding the warning not to climb on the ridge on windy days. I followed up at this stage. I saw where she had gone, but was rather enjoying the airy space, and had plenty to hold on to, so kept on the blade. I got to the summit, photographed, wondered where Angela was, and began to descend, hearing her calling  me as I did so. The wind was so strong I couldn’t hear what she said, and neither did she hear my full answer.


When I got back to her pack, and saw she was not there, mild panic set in. (She didn’t want the wind buffeting her rucksack, possibly knocking her off balance, so took it off for the final climb. On the other hand, I wanted my back protected from the iciness of the blast, and thought that if I fell, I’d prefer to land on my pack rather than my bones. If you could see the drop, you would know that whichever part of your anatomy landed first would be utterly irrelevant, and that pack or no pack would be of no consequence at all. Be that as it may, my pack stayed on).


I was unbelievably relieved when I saw her emerging around the corner. Her yell had not been for help: it had been to tell me she’d found a cairned route up that was not exposed at all. She enjoyed her route. I liked the mild adrenalin rush of mine, as there was no real danger if you didn’t let go, and the handholds were firm.
All of those antics complete, it was now 10.30. We decided that, despite the weather, we’d continue on towards Aldebaran. However, with each step, it seemed, the rain got stronger and the wind more forceful. We had to cross a saddle before Lake Sirona, and in this stretch, I was blown a metre to the east on several occasions. It was taking all my might to fight the wind.


The knife-edged ridge from beyond.
Up we climbed, … up a chute which was quite slippery, but doable, and along to another saddle. Ahead in the gloom lay numerous lumps and bumps of unknown difficulty. This next saddle, like the one before it, had huge drops on the leeward side. I was now moving very slowly in my attempt to deal with the effect of the wind and to protect myself from a huge but terminal flying lesson.  I wasn’t moving fast enough to stay warm, despite my multiple layers of clothing. Reluctantly, I told Angela I thought I should quit. She was very obliging, and about we turned.


The way back was windy and wet, but as we got lower, I could move more quickly and thus stay warmer. It was far more fun being out there dealing with wild nature than lying in a cosy tent, that’s for sure. We were back mid-afternoon, and seemed to spend most of the remaining hours of the day eating, calling the food a variety of meal names.


You can see we climbed the final stretch via the “back door”.

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Blackboy 2017 Apr


Mt Blackboy is not the most exciting mountain I have climbed, but it’s there on the Peak Baggers’ List, so I wanted to see what it was like. I led a group of people who had never walked offtrack before (club walk) – who didn’t even quite know the meaning of the word – so that was a little disquieting, but they coped fine, and I think it was a great little mountain to introduce people to moving through untracked bushland. Poor Kai is off to buy himself a pair of gaiters! They all agreed that far more coordination and balance are required for that kind of work. Hopefully, they all gained a sense of achievement at attaining their first such summit.

My maps app said the fastest way to Mathinna from Launceston is to go via Fingal, and I decided it was correct, based on how VERY long it took me using back roads last time. Despite holdups due to a car race, as well as roadworks, we were still there in under two hours, as compared with two hours thirty using the “shortcut”.  From Mathinna I headed mostly north, using Dilgers Hill Road to go around the top of Mathinna Falls (in a westerly direction at that time). Once we could clearly see Blackboy, I just headed for it, choosing a road that edged around its eastern side. You could follow this road further than I did, but there was a bit of fallen timber, and I didn’t want to hit a dead end and then have to back a long distance, so I parked early, and we were all happy to get more walking for the drive. Even with the longer walk, and with people who took the bush pretty slowly, we were both up and down in a bit under half an hour (each direction). The roads I was on were not on the map, which is why my blue track appears to start in the middle of nowhere.

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Picton 2017 Mar

Mt Picton. 31 Mar 2017
 

A “worthy” mountain – like Mt Picton – is like a good book that benefits from multiple readings. Each time you revisit the complexities of such a mountain, there is pleasure in a combination of reacquainting yourself with the aspects you liked the first time, with stimulation resulting from details you hadn’t noticed before, or from changes due to different conditions.


I loved Mt Picton the first time I met it, and have wanted to return ever since. The lush forest held a charm that never ceased to call me back. On this trip, I had intended to do a Picton-Burgess traverse, but had to change my plans due to family obligations. At least I had time to go up and sleep near the summit, so long as I hurried back down on the Saturday.


Carlin. Misty summit.
The river at the start was every bit as charming as my memory had it, and the forest as lush and green as I recalled. This time was slightly later in the year than my 2012 visit, which meant that plentiful fungi were about.
Last time, I had really enjoyed camping on a broad spur above Steanes Tarn, and climbing a knob nearby for better views at sunset. This time, I had to content myself with a spot right down near the water, as it was far too gusty and blustery to be any higher. There was no view, as clouds encircled the mountain, and the air had such a bite to it that I retired to my cosy tent before sunset (MOST unusual)!!


At 2 a.m., I was awoken by the sound of pelting rain (so I thought), and was airlifted by a few strong gusts of wind. I became quite glad I had to descend early in the morning. At 6.30 a.m., I was astonished to find a pile of white bordering the outskirts of my trusty tent. The pandani bushes abutting my vestibule had a coating of icy balls. The “pelting rain” had been sago snow. It was still unusually dark and the mist seemed quite thick. The wind had not yet abated. I was too wussy to leave the comfort of my tent, so cooked and ate my porridge, coffee and biscuits half in my sleeping bag, and packed everything from inside my tent, only emerging about one minute before I was ready to actually leave. What a glorious surprise when I poked my head out to find that the environment was white.


Snow fell as I edged my way carefully down the major boulder scree before entering the forest. The fungi in the moss down lower shone and glistened in their own captured water. Maybe next time I visit Picton I’ll get a full view.

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Balfour Track, Trowutta Arch 2017 Mar

Balfour Track and Trowutta Arch, Tarkine Day 4.


Sadly, we turned our back on the coast – but not before I’d got up in the dark and wended my way down to the ocean to capture moonset, long before the sun had risen. The shot here is a very long exposure.


To reach our goal, we headed from the coast on the road running east from Couta Rocks – the C214 – until signs directed us to our destination. The track runs parallel to the road, rejoining it after about an hour’s walking (plus any stops you might have). Our group did an out and back route, probably taking us the three hours recommended. The extra half hour in each direction beyond walking was used in taking copious photos of fungi and forest, and in snack time beside the beautiful Stephens Rivulet.


Of all the tracks we walked this trip, this one was my favourite. The path was narrow and non-invasive; the forest was lush and green with plentiful tree ferns and moss. I thought it would be way too dry and warm for fungi, and that there would not be much to photograph, but I was mistaken. The quaint, tiny ones were not yet out, but there were still plenty of others. Luckily for me, the other walkers had gone on ahead, so I was supposedly giving chase. However, I ended up rolling in dirt every ten paces or so at the discovery of each new delightful specimen. The fact that the others were ahead meant I didn’t have to feel guilty about holding anyone up. If and when all these marvellous sights stopped, I could keep my promise about giving chase, and if not, I’d just meet them on the rebound. I rolled in a little more humus and thoroughly enjoyed myself. (Map at end of this page)



In the afternoon, we visited the Trowutta Arch. The arch itself was spectacular, but the way to it quite ruined it for me. I hated the hard, wide, unnatural path that has been built that scars the landscape. The forest also appears to be most suspiciously “tidy”. If the bureaucrats who designed this have wheelchairs in mind, I am most curious to know how they intend getting such chairs down the steep drop to the actual arch. Are they going to pop in a lift? Stairs will hardly help. The only section I enjoyed was the part they haven’t yet attacked. I hope this is the only route they decide to tame and manicure for tourists. I wonder why it is assumed that visitors are incapable of walking on any surface other than the artificially even one they normally use for shopping. This is a sad reflection on our society if it is correct. It contradicts what is actually good for our brains – a little challenge – a matter pursued by the excellent Austrian architect, Hundertwasser, in his deliberate planning of crooked, uneven paths and walls in anything he designed. I seemed to be the only one in the group who felt this way, but for me, the sight and feel of that city-style pavement in what had once been pristine rainforest, completely jarred, and detracted markedly from any delight I might have felt in the beauty that was there. Significantly, with the forest so “clean”, there were no fungi to be seen. There was nothing much for them to decompose.


Balfour Track instructions: The orange road to the left with 17 beside it is the C214. As you can see, you turn right off it (if going up from the coast) and travel 700 ms to the start. After your one hour (plus stops) walking, you will reach the C214 again, where you either retrace your steps (NOT boring at all) or, if you have arranged a car shuffle, a car will return you to the start. As the forest is always new in a different direction, the former method is both easier and more enjoyable. The track itself is the dashed line that basically follows the Stephens Rivulet. The other dashed, very straight line to the right (east) is presumably a boundary of some sort.