View of Bear Hill from the water’s edge.
Schouten Island has at least three peaks worth climbing, two of which are worth points. Poor Bear Hill is worth no points, but is probably the nicest climb of all, being quick and easy, and with an excellent view. It’s so quick and easy, I did it twice: once on the day we arrived, and once before breakfast for a dawn shoot the following day. My stats confirm it was 28 minutes to the top – and that’s with lugging 3kgs of camera gear. In other words, it’s easy to do for a dawn or dusk shoot and not have to deal with too much darkness.
Early morning view.
I particularly liked the fact that Bear Hill was not too far from the mainland peninsula, so the mountains of Freycinet National Park looked appealing from up there. Meanwhile, you could look down on the beach where the tent was, and the beach on which we landed. The little world of the island was laid out before me. Because I felt like having a workout, and the others wanted to enjoy themselves, going at a more leisurely pace, I did this one solo, which gave me this little world to myself. Funnily, no one else (of three) had wanted to get up in the dark and do a dash for the top to see dawn from on high with me. I went alone. Penguins called to me as I left my tent.
Before Bruce’s disappearance, I had booked us both in to an HWC walk to Schouten Island, and we were looking forward to it. By the weekend of the walk, however, events in my life had changed dramatically; nonetheless, I thought I would like to go, albeit for entirely different reasons. I decided that seeking the soothing balm of nature and camping with a tiny group of friends would be restorative. I was right. These friends were just perfect, and I had a wonderful mixture of happy, healing company and much-needed solitude. We climbed mountains each day, and I had fun at dawn and dusk photographing the beauty of Schouten. The “peaks” we climbed were Bear Hill and Mt Story. I will give each its separate entry in the blog, and only publish some seascape shots in this entry.
I needed a trip to Adamsons Falls as a diversion after four days’ intensive hunting for my lost husband in the nearby Creekton Falls area. Under superlative police leadership, we had searched all places logical and illogical, rational and irrational, possible and impossible, and had drawn a blank. Now, I needed a workout to soothe my soul, to distract my emotions and cleanse me in a way that only a workout can do. Some people turn to drink in a similar situation; others to drugs. I ‘just’ need to go for a run or a fast walk – preferably in the wilderness. I announced my plan.
Adamsons Falls Tier 3
Aidan, a friend and former student, wanted to come too. We used to train together, so I knew his general pace, and said ‘sure’. A policeman wanted to come, and I rudely warned him that I was not in the mood for loitering today. The others teased him a bit, but he said he was fine. Another person (whom I didn’t know) wanted to come, but I drew the line there. It seemed very impolite, but I really didn’t feel like having someone who might hold me up, and I wanted – and needed – the group to be “cosy”, containing only people who understood me and what I was going through at this time.
We arrived at the start, and off I set, happy to find myself alone after not too many minutes. I needed solitude. Had there been just one person with me, I would have felt obliged to be courteous and wait, but the two guys had each other, so I could move quickly, and enter a trance world, oblivious to almost everything other than a sense of surrounding beauty.
Adamsons Falls Tier 2
In thirty eight minutes, I reached Adamsons Falls, and could photograph away while waiting for the other two. I set up my tripod and shot and sang. Some people have their spiritual moments in a dark building made with human hands; I have mine in nature. This was a religious excursion as much as anything. When the guys arrived, they wanted to rest and eat a bit. I was soothed by now, having had my little lash out, so we chatted and ate and enjoyed these falls, which are very beautiful, even if they can’t match Creekton.
Hygrocybe roseoflavida
The next section was fun: an indistinct, taped pad through beautiful forest, with enough obstacles to make it interesting and turn it away from being a march. I have heard other photographers describe this as rough and difficult. Listen to them and not to me. I’m a bushwalker, used to bushbashing, so this felt easy in comparison. The three of us stayed together in this section, chatting away while we went, keeping an eye out for any signs of my husband whilst doing so, not that any of us believed he would have come this far or in this direction. You have to check every possibility when you’ve drawn a blank. This took us fifty five minutes.
Now we had reached Creekton Falls, which the other two hadn’t yet seen, so I sent them up to look at the main falls while I photographed a cascade nearer to the junction that I hadn’t shot on day one.
Back at the Creekton Rivulet, below Creekton Falls
Once more, we had fun talking and eating before setting out on the final downhill stretch leading back to the cars. This part took fifty two minutes. The other two dropped behind me, so once more I enjoyed having a faster pace and with singing. Music always soothes my soul. I sang to Bruce in all the early searching, when I was alone, as if he heard my voice, he would know I was out there searching for him, and not give up hope.
I felt refreshed having been allowed to move this day. My daughters chose to climb Adamsons Peak having a similar need to withdraw from the main cluster, but, like me, at the same time scanning the new territory just in case Bruce had somehow climbed up there. They knew that this was “it”. If, when they returned to the police there was still no sign of Bruce, the search would be officially finished. Their dad would be “missing presumed dead”. They sat together up on a flat area before the summit, hugging each other and crying, sensing that there would be no luck today. I envied them. The shoulder I have been crying on all my life, the one who has shared every joy and sorrow with me since I was a little school kid had now vanished from the planet.
The next day, day six, was not a search day. We sombrely walked to the lake (which we later learned – courtesy of Rafael’s drone – is a heart-shaped lake!!) and had a little farewell service there before dispersing. I cannot think of myself as a widow or Bruce as dead. Legally, he’s not. Intellectual knowledge and emotional knowledge do not always align. Reality will catch up with me one day. Post script 2019. Last year, and this year, on the Bruceaversary, our family has gone and stayed at Driftwood Cottages, Dover, where Bruce and I spent his final night, and where we stayed throughout the search. Together, we walk in “Bruce Forest” to the Lake. Each year, we set a little raft of native flowers to float out to the middle, and each year, we sing Dona nobis pacem in harmony together. This year, in the afternoon, Kirsten and I chose to go to Adamsons Falls: she running, and me lugging my camera gear. I have changed some of the images to incorporate some of this year’s offerings.
Grail Falls Nov 2017.
I had already “bagged” Grail Falls, so was not overly desperate to see them again, but I must say, I preferred them this time. On our outward journey, we passed by the base and took some shots. The best fun, however, was on the homeward stretch, when we left the track and went exploring the top of the falls, and then crossed to the other side (and climbed down that far side). This is not recommended as a general strategy unless you are very experienced. Both crossing over and climbing down provide lots of ways you could kill yourself, even if you were only quarter trying.
Here are some other shots of the falls from various angles. I was thrilled that, although it was nearly December and things were drying out, there still seemed to be a decent flow.
And so, by the chronological presentationI have been following of the falls we visited on this holiday, I now arrive at Creekton Falls. These glorious falls would be momentous in their own right, even if nothing else happened that day: because of their sheer beauty, and the attendant beauty of all the cascades that can be found if you wander downstream. Even the lower demesne of the Creekton Rivulet, with no falls or cascades, just gentle burbles, is captivating due to its tannin colour set in deep rainforest green.
I have written in the blog titled “Bruce’s Final Footsteps” about the tragic turn events took that day. Most people reading this blog are coming to this post to find out information about the Creekton Falls, as such, (or to see my photos of it) so I will write about their beauty, even though, for me and for all of us who searched for six days for Bruce, that beauty is couched within the context of events as they emerged once I got back to the car and discovered that my husband wasn’t there.
After I left him (at the start, to do his own, easier walk), I was off in my private little world, dreaming to the rhythm of my footsteps in my purposeful stride, and transported to a different realm of enormous beauty, hating rushing past it, and planning to go backwards with Bruce after our rendez-vous to shoot some sweet pools with appealing flow lines. I got to the lake, which had mirror reflections, but didn’t stop, as I wanted to allow any extra time in my estimation to be spent photographing the falls themselves.
The path was less clear after the lake, but there were pink ribbons, and nothing was tricky if you’re experienced – there was even a rope on the steep bit that was muddy enough to pose possible problems if it was very wet. Up I climbed, reaching the falls in one hour fifteen minutes. Good. I had plenty of time for photography. I chose several different angles, and had a wonderful time, singing as I shot. Tessie behaved beautifully for a change, not worrying me too much by going near edges, and sitting very still when I perched in dangerous positions to get my angles.
On the way back, I looked longingly at the pink ribbon that lead to Adamsons Falls. I had deliberately chosen – before I ever set out – not to do them, as I thought the expected three hours was long enough to leave Bruce by himself. People say the Adamsons-Creekton loop is seven hours – much too long. I’d do Adamsons another time. I don’t like eating all my chocolates at once anyway. (I actually did this loop on day 6 and was back well before lunchtime. I’ll write that blog soon). The return trip from the falls to the car only took one hour for the walking part, a pleasant morning’s outing …. except that there was no Bruce at the end.
There never was a Bruce again, but, as I said earlier, that is another story, particular to Bruce rather than these falls. For you, they’ll “just” be the magic Creekton Falls. For Bruce’s family and the thousands of people who have been touched by him – by his patience, his kindness, his gentillesse and his power to inspire others to be and do their best – it will be the special place of his final walk. We all call the forest “Brucey Forest”, and it will always be the place where I feel a very special connection to my soulmate and husband.
View of Bear Hill from the water’s edge.
Early morning view.
