Category: mountain

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Young 2014 Oct

Mt Young 20 Oct 2014.

I was excited as I put on my suncream; I love that smell, redolant of summer holidays, the beach, excitement and adventure. It seemed as if I hadn’t been on a proper Tassie walk forever. I couldn’t even find a compass, and that’s about as likely hat our place as not being able to find a spoon to eat with.

As I left the house, I joked with my husband: “We need to leave for the airport at 7, so dinner will be at 6. See you at one minute to …. haha.”
It was a beautiful day, as promised. The grass was that magic spring green; little lambs gambolled about, leaping randomly, jumping invisible obstacles and filling me with delight. Ben Lomond was sharply delineated as I continued on past it. I was finding the driving enjoyable and relaxing.

However, I seemed to have used up far too much of my beautiful day, I decided, as I at last reached Mathinna. It was already 11.30. I turned to the north. Checking the map at every turn was a bit bothersome, so I drove on, and checked far too late to see that I was now heading to the Falls instead of travelling on Diggers Road, parallel (sort of), to the one I wanted. Back I went, found my road, did a bit more stopping and checking at intersections this time, and there was the road I wanted, the one that would connect Diggers with Evercreech Rd that led all the way to Mt Young: Symonds Rd. It was surprisingly narrow. I rechecked the map – yes, solid orange, same as the roads I had been on, which meant I could drive on it. Yet it was only just wide enough to take the car, and branches were trying to get in the windows. I’d already seen two black snakes on the road. Now, travelling very slowly, I saw a third. I came to a halt to glare banefully at him. He stared menacingly back, eye to eye and no mistaking it. I was starting to think that the solo bit wasn’t so nice today.

I drove over a fallen tree, small, but with side branches – trunk maybe 12 cms thick. Then came two more logs. I’m now going downhill, presumably to a creek. The road is getting even narrower, scratching the car as I went, and also becoming quite sandy and loose. Luckily my husband is not a man who cares about a bit of metal … which is kind of why I married him. His head and heart are in other places. BUT, then I came face to face with a very thick tree that had fallen, and although it had been cleared enough to let a motorbike through, I was not a motorbike and for me there was no way forward. Another big BUT. Could I back up the slope and over those obstacles on a path this narrow and sandy with all sorts of hidden traps at wheel level? Could RACT ever rescue me if the answer to that question was was ‘No’? I remembered my joking words of this morning and feared I would not even be home by one minute to six at this rate.

Whenever I’m in a sticky situation like this, I’ve found from experience that the very best thing to do is to sit and eat – preferably some chocolate, but almost anything will do. I grabbed at my lunchpacket and gobbled some of its wares. That felt better. It wouldn’t do to go backing a car on an empty stomach in that kind of terrain.

 Miraculously, I made it, and after far too much time, found myself driving back towards Mathinna to try a new attack. South to the town, and then east, and once more, north. This trip was getting very long, and the purpose (climbing a mountain, in case you’ve forgotten), seemed still a long way off. The airport was starting to call.

At long last, my mountain, and the goal of this trip, came into view. I wanted to drive until I was due west of it. I now had out the gps as I drove to line up waiting for that point. Going nice and slowly now. Just as I was deciding I was due west, I saw a most heartening and glorious (given my frame of mind at that time) sign – a pink ribbon tied to a tree. That strip of pink ribbon could have been a golden necklace and I wouldn’t have been as happy. I looked at my watch. Time for one hour up, one down.  That should do it. I packed my bag and set out.

Oh the joy of at last being in the bush after such a stressful and protracted journey.  Oh the pleasure of walking through open forest with a green carpet under my feet. I had imagined as I pictured the day in advance, that I would have to bushbash the whole way, and find my own route up through the rocks, but the pink ribbons went on and led me right to the top. Thanks ever so much person /people who put them there. Everything was glorious, I utterly enjoyed the feel of the bush, its smells and its sights … except that in 15 minutes I was standing by the summit trig. That represented a truly shocking drive to walk ratio!!! (17:1).

The view was wonderful, and I stayed a while to take it all in. I could see the sea – very clearly –  and lots of mountains that I’d climbed already. In fact, I think the only mountain in my purview that I hadn’t climbed was Mt Blackboy, which was also on this day’s agenda, but I had now timed myself out of it. The airport called louder and, had that call not had dire consequences if I ignored it, I might have attempted to squeeze in another mountain, but I couldn’t risk anything more going wrong, so quit while I was ahead, and assured myself it had been a lovely morsel of a mountain and that I could bathe in its happy memories for a while without pushing them to the side by adding an extra climb that would be tense as time ticked by.
I came home via the north, heading first from Mathinna to Ringarooma and then west on Ben Ridge Road towards Targa and thence Launceston. It was very interesting seeing new angles on otherwise familiar mountains, such as Ben Nevis.

I arrived home in time to have some berry and almond cake with a cup of tea before throwing some gear in a pack, having a hasty dinner, and driving to the airport, where we ordered citrus tart and cappuccino to try to begin relaxing. I had done almost nothing in terms of physical exercise, but the strain of almost being stuck overnight a very long way from phone range had made me absolutely ravenous.

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Byatts Razorback 2014 Sept

Sphinx Bluff, Broken Bluff and Pavement Bluff from below

The mountain I selected for today (Byatts Razorback) was perfect for a day like this. It was not too far away (about 1.5 hrs in each direction), and not too long a walk (about 30 mins each way). I am unwell again – they’re calling my virus the “hundred day flu”, and that seems right from what I’ve observed of self and others – and I have heaps to do before I fly with my debaters to Brisbane tomorrow. Just a little excursion was all I wanted. I was, however, expecting this “little excursion” to be unpleasantly scrubby: it is, after all, on the east coast, near West Tower and a raft of other rather bushy mounds.

Denison Crag from near Rossarden
We had never taken the road north of Avoca before. I’m not a fan of driving, but this road was a delight. Without a peak baggers’ list prodding me to explore and climb a stack of mountains I’d never even heard of before, I probably would have lived my life without ever going up this road. I’m thankful for the list and the number of new places it’s tempted us to see. The wattles (acacia dealbata) were in full bloom, and Stacks Bluff, which I’ve never inspected at close range, loomed large and perfectly delineated in the morning light, with crisp edges and shadows. It’s a great shape. It moved up the “to do” list, but not for today. My goals today were small.

We then swung right, to change our gaze to Broken Bluff and The Knuckle (yes, yes, I did watch the road as well), and eventually came to the quaint settlement of Rossarden, where someone has transformed the old wooden church into a very attractive house with daffodils. Not far to go now.

Typical bush on the way up.

My plan was to park just south, and a little west, of the summit, and walk north to the razorback of its name, and then east to the high point. One hardly needed a map for that, but we had packed one anyway, as we always do – along with a compass. As I’m approaching the spot in the car, I see a little side track. I consult my gps and decide it can do no harm, and could do a lot of good, so, even though it’s not on the map (what road ever is, you may well ask), I take it. Unfortunately, it stopped after about a hundred metres. Oh well, it was worth a try. Might as well climb from here now we’ve stopped.

No, he didn’t think it was the summit, but it did look a fun thing to climb. There were lots of little beckoning columns like this up there.

Framboisiennes fresh from our Harvest Markets in our stomachs, off we set. Well, well, look at that. That tree has an orange streamer. Look, so has that one up there. These streamers weren’t quite connected, in that I couldn’t see from one to the next, but by keeping the line of least resistance in the forest, I kept finding them. It was fun. And the bush was delightfully easy – a long cry from the fight with prickles and tangles I was expecting. We were loving it. Boulders were mossy and a soothing green. Up we went, enjoying the route, onto the ridge line. We climbed something that looked nice and high (and it was, actually, the black dot on the map), but a boulder cluster further over looked higher, and the pink ribbon continued, so (having climbed the black dot) we headed further east, actually dropping a bit on some scree in order to climb the next section with less resistance from bush. The pink ribbons, having led us down the other side, then disappeared. There were several scrambling routes possible, all of which appealed. I selected mine and up I went. On top of this one was a summit cairn, and, as far as the eye is any indication of anything, I was now on the highest point. My gps confirmed that I was at the summit height (actually, it said I was 1 metre higher).

The summit rocks. There is a cairn just behind me, to the left.

Even so, we still went a bit further east just for the heck of it, and because I had seen a good vantage point off that way where we could sit and snack and stare out at West Tower and its eastern mate.

West Tower (L) and East Tower (R) from our snack rock
Back at Avoca we shared a pie, lettuce and sparkling apple juice down by the river in the company of ducks to fend off the pangs of hunger until real lunch.

How wonderful it is to be welcomed home by dogs. As the car neared our internal gate, I could see them bouncing with excitement as they raced to meet us. I find it hilarious that they don’t seem to think that they can have fun without us. We all did a turn around the perimeter of the home paddock together, they, rushing and dashing; we, sniffing and sighing at the beauty of sun through petals, before at last heading into the kitchen for lunch.

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Wentworth Hills 2014 D’Arcys Bluff Sept

 Wellington Hills and D’Arcys Bluff 2014 Sept

 The reward: a view like this

“I hope I’m pleasantly surprised by this mountain today. I’m not feeling overly hopeful.”
“Why not?” asked my husband,  probably wondering why his wife had brought him on a walk that she wasn’t expecting to enjoy.
“Hmm. The picture in the book was rather dull – it looks rather a non-event – and the book says it’ll take 4 hours from car to summit, which is rather a long time. The distance doesn’t seem overly long, so that bodes ill re the terrain.”
“Why are we going then?”
“Mhm? To taste new things. Besides, when expectations are low, you often end up loving whatever it is. If we don’t like it, we won’t go back.”
Well, it was too late for him to object. He was already in the car and we continued our way through the gloomy dawn mist; at the very least, we’d get a good workout, which for us is always a positive.

Easier scrub near the top of D’Arcy’s Bluff

And what is my verdict, now that I’ve completed the walk? Unfortunately the old “low expectations trick” didn’t quite work. I will certainly never climb D’Arcy’s Bluff again, having gained my single point for the efforts, but I would return to Wentworth Hills via the route of our return. Although the lower slopes of D’Arcys had rather lovely myrtle forest, and were sufficiently open to allow pleasant walking, that forest type didn’t last long enough, and ceded too soon to drier, bushier, thicker stuff, cluttered with fallen timber and rocky jumble as we sidled our way around under the palisade of cliffs, looking for a break that would allow us up to the top level.

Nicer going right on top
Up there the rocks became mossy again, and a view opened up over Laughing Jack Lagoon way below. It was not the most dramatic view in the world, but at least there was more reward than just the acquisition of a single peak-bagger’s point.

The more open section between D’Arcys and Wentworth Hills
On we pressed to mountain number two, the dubiously named Wentworth Hills (the minute you call a mountain a hill you’re asking for trouble in my books. Who wants to climb a mountain called a hill? Only a fairly desperate peak bagger). The bush wasn’t too scrubby, although not lightning fast, and then there was a fairly long stretch of spongy open wetland with only calf-high vegetation that sank somewhat even under my unimpressive weight. A bit more scrub, sightly thicker, another rocky barricade and the summit at last. Not a moment too soon. I was absolutely ravenous.

View from Wentworth Hills, to Lake King William (L) and Lake St Clair (distance, R) 
There had been a mild dispute over direction down lower, and I, knowing that others had gone off in the direction they felt to be the summit, took that as licence to do the same, and as it so happened, got to the top with a gap of fifteen or so minutes in which I could soothe my soul by staring out to an infinitude of natural delights: to vast blue and grey skies stretching to worlds beyond, down to Lakes King William and St Clair, and across to a cornucopia of mountains, many of which are familiar friends, but seen here from a new angle. It was delicious to have the summit to myself, to photograph and spend silent time with the beauty. Having taken the photos I wanted, I chose a rock and quietly munched my roll, gazing, gazing, not even worried by the rather strong breeze.

Lake King Will and the King William Range (et al)
 I reckon there was enough ground water near the summit to stay overnight up high. As to whether the mountain would pay off the trek up through the resisting forest with a sunset that made it worthwhile, that is a question that I may … or may not … one day solve. Our return route was via a saddle to the south-east of D’Arcy’s Bluff, and then following the slight spur to the left of the creek that issues from it until it intersected with the road. That’s the way I would go if I didn’t need the point for D’Arcy. If I did need the point, I’d still go up beside the creek to the saddle, and climb D’Arcy via the “back door”, after I’d got my Abel (Wentworth Hills), on the way out. The bush is friendlier by far from that angle.

Zoom in on the watery mountains surrounding Lake St Clair – an interesting aspect.

Route. (Turned gps off early)

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Florentine and Tyenna Peaks 2014 Sept

Florentine and Tyenna Peaks: Sleeping on top.  6-7 Sept 2014.

On the approach to Florentine Peak
Our feet crunched noisily on the snow as we made our way over the Rodway Range, our overnight packs on our backs. Mist played around us, sometimes teasing us with a view of the rocks around, at others enclosing us in a world of grey. We hadn’t set out from the car until after lunch and, according to BoM, the weather right now should have been fine, but this dense air wasn’t cooperating.
“I think we’ll have to switch to Plan B,” I muttered a short while later as we crabbed our way along the slippery descent from the high point, made treacherous by the moist black moss. “I don’t want to lug this gear up a mountain we can’t see and don’t know.”
My husband kind of grunted assent.
As we approached K-Col, however, I changed my mind. There was no sun and the wind was up, but we could at least now see our intended mountain, and you never knew what tomorrow would bring.
“Yeah, let’s give it a go,” Bruce agreed.

Beautiful cushion plant, with FP behind.
Although The Abels book suggested a slightly different route, I was in the mood for climbing, so we set off straight up the first mound, using channels of vegetation, which eventually produced a kind of climb-contour alternation to the first saddle, after which it was straight up on all fours – very steeply. My husband suffers from vertigo, so I hoped he wasn’t looking over his shoulder. He was … and so began moving very slowly, which he does when the fear factor kicks in. By the time we’d reached the cairn of that particular summit (nicknamed by me ‘summit 2’, as it was the second highest of the several wonderful mounds that decorate the Florentine general lump), he was ready to stop. “Let’s call this the summit,” he suggested.

Straight up and still smiling.
“No. It’s not the summit, and I’m going to the real one. But this is a great place for camping. I can pitch the tent here if you’d like.”
He liked. I pitched. Time was now running out and I was getting frustrated and upset. I still hadn’t earned any points at all today and Bruce wanted us out by lunchtime tomorrow. We were on a summit, but it was 10 metres below the actual one, which still looked (as from the map) about a kilometre away.

One of very few sunset photos, taken on the way back.
I erected the tent hastily, threw a few things into my daypack and was ready to try for my first points of the excursion. Bruce was now feeling more enthusiastic, so was ready to come too. Off we set at a rush and to my absolute astonishment, we were standing on its summit celebrating in under ten minutes. Hoorah. Time was still at a premium. We only took one photo up there, as we decided we could give Tyenna a try as well, given the speed with which we’d summitted Florentine. People said it was an hour in each direction. We had 1 hr 45 until total darkness. It was worth a go.
We literally raced where we could – along the vegetation leads, running until Bruce took a few falls, so then slowing to a quick walk. Twenty five minutes got us as far as a high point overlooking the final saddle separating us from our goal. There was no way I could get Bruce up and back before darkness fell. He agreed to stay there and watch, and have a rest. The terrain looked rather unfriendly ahead.

Looking back at Tyenna once we were reunited
The going was slower now, as the bush had thickened up here, and the rocks were once more slippery and jagged. As I climbed higher, the gaps between rocks were sometimes 4-6 metres deep. Despite the need for haste, there was also a paramount need for care. If I fell, I would probably freeze to death overnight, and Bruce wouldn’t have any idea what to do and would be stuck out in the open as well. The forecast was for frost in a town 1200 ms below us. Who knows what the temperature would get to up there? Three times I ended up in a cul-de-sac of unclimbable cliff-face, and had to back track, sidle around further and try again. I didn’t want to look at my watch until I reached the top, as I didn’t want to have to turn around before my goal, and I had a strong sense that I did not wish to see the information it would tell me.

Sunrise from our wonderful eyrie
I had been right. When I finally got to the top and looked, I had taken too long in dead-ends and caution. I needed to hurry back, but still needed not to land at the bottom of a rocky crevice in a single misjudgement or patch of unexpected slippery black moss. I negotiated obstacles on all fives, a monster crab descending, and then hurried to my husband in his bright orange jacket, a wonderful beacon on the horizon catching the now golden rays of the sun.

Looking to the Mt Anne group. (Feder is visible, faintly, to the left)
In all this time – since leaving our tent – I’d hardly taken any photos, such was our emphasis on speed to beat the darkness. Our tent was maybe 45 minutes away, and the sun was setting. However, we were also now out of danger. It would get dark, but we were once more together with nothing more to climb, and I could navigate us back to our tent. I’d taken a very careful note of the shape of our summit (which, being the furthest away no longer looked as high as it actually was, so I couldn’t just head for the second highest lump); I had also been observant about the shape of the snow patch we were next to  (and I did have my gps as a backup for emergencies).

Looking across to Florentine summit 1
I steered us along the western cliff line, partly because that gave us the most light, but mainly because it gave us the best view of the sunset that was now in full swing. Now we were reunited, I used the moments where I waited for B to catch up to snatch brief photo opportunities, although I still had no time to think carefully about composition or lighting. It was, out of necessity, a matter of point and shoot. It was such a shame to be wasting a glorious sunset careening through the landscape, but I would not loosen my guard until our tent was in sight. I feel very responsible leading a man with Parkinson’s in situations like this. The few photos would at least let us admire our sunset later.

A different view of Florentine from Florentine. (See Mt Solitary there to the left).
By the time we were about ten minutes from the tent, it was totally dark on the ground, but we could observe shapes against the horizon. Luckily I knew the form of our patch of snow, as it guided me in to the control point of our tent. I was basically on top of it before I noticed it. Bruce was still in earshot, so my voice guided him in (I never let him get out of earshot). Now we were both there, perched on our eyrie, we could enjoy the remnants of the red and tangerine sunset out to the west. Florentine summit 1 had a beautiful mist floating around its head. Everything was ethereal with that light, dancing veil. We felt transported into a world of glory.

View towards Mt Field West.
Perhaps it is odd of me, but one of the aspects of summit camping that I adore is the inevitable 2 a.m. need to get out of the tent and go to the toilet. The air is so crisp at that hour and the silhouettes of mountains always particularly sharp. As I emerged from the tent, the stars glistened and flickered in a sky that was now perfectly clear. The moon picked out the delineated edges of the pineapple grass fronds, underlining each one in shining silver. I stayed outside as long as I could considering the cold, gazing, fully-satisfied at the spectacle of near perfection around me.

Looking at Mt Mueller. Our tent and its ice-block tarn in the foreground.
But the very best thing about summit camping is the dawn. This dawn was superlative. First we had a gentle alpenglow, followed by ruby highlights as the rising sun touched the dolerite rocks around as we perched on our summit gazing out in awe. Fluffy, puffy clouds filled the valley below. We could see all the Western and Eastern Arthurs, the Mt Anne group, Lake Pedder with Mt Solitary peeping through between Florentine lumps, last week’s mountain (Mueller), The Thumbs and more. It would be impossible to actually count the number of peaks in our purview, each one taking form as an indigo silhouette against a pastel roseate background.

Looking towards The Thumbs across a sea of cotton wool.
I was completely fulfilled as we returned to the tent (2 mins away) to cook breakfast. But here we encountered a problem. Last night, I was already tucked in my sleeping bag when I remembered that I really should fill my water bottle so we’d have running water for breakfast. I was too snug and too lazy to get up – and didn’t want to wet my fingers. I was quite cold enough by this stage. The price we paid for that inertia in the morning was that we had no water for our porridge. I watched as Bruce tried to bang things against the ice on the tarn with no effect. I suggested a sharp rock would be the only means, so he procured one and hammered the sharp end into the ice. Bang, crash. Still no resistance. Fourth time, he met with success and succeeded in breaking a patch of the very thick ice. What emphasised the degree of cold that existed overnight was the fact that ten minutes later when I went to the hole he’d made to collect water for coffee, it was an iced-over scar, a reminder of where a hole had been, but a hole no longer. I had to boil our cups to get the solid ice blocks out of them.

And finally, looking back towards last night’s mountain, Tyenna Peak.
We were back at the car late morning, allowing us to have lunch at the Possum Shed, and be in Launceston by mid-afternoon, which was needed for work reasons. It was a pleasant change to arrive home in the light, and the dogs were thrilled. They cavorted with us in the garden before we settled into other duties.