Category: tasmania

Posted on

Coal Falls 2015 Apr

Coal Falls 1 April 2015


Heading along the tops before dropping down to the falls
This was, it seems, not a good time to visit these falls, in that the flow was most unexciting – so much so that I didn’t even bother to take a photo of the falls. Downstream was a lot prettier, and the walk there was fun. I am publishing here in case others would like to see the route we took to the falls. We went up the track to Broken Bluff, along the tops off track past Storys Bluff, and then down, also offtrack, past the falls, along the creek and back. We picked up bits of an old track at some point on the way down. It’s not a walk for those who need a track the whole way.


Looking back at them from below

Downstream – much nicer

Posted on

Bent Bluff, Knuckle, Storys Bluff 2015 Apr

Bent Bluff, The Knuckle, Storys Bluff Apr 2015

Misty Fingal valley near the top of the track
My bags were all packed for my Easter six-day expedition when an invitation to go climbing arrived in my Inbox. Could I honestly squeeze this in – and do it without using any of the gear I’d so carefully packed for the weekend? Was I organised enough to go off gallivanting for a day? I decided I was.

The group arrives at Bent Bluff

The climb was located at the southern end of the Ben Lomond massif, to three peaks east of Stacks Bluff (that I had already climbed), and we would use the Bent Bluff track that I had never seen before, which meant that everything would be new for me. It’s fun to explore unfamiliar territory.

The Knuckle summit, looking at Sphinx Bluff. Stacks Bluff off to the right.

We met in the dark in Launceston and were ready to start walking by 9. I wore gym shoes and no gaiters, courtesy of my self-made limitations mentioned above. I didn’t want to dirty or wet anything important. I really enjoyed returning to the footwear I wore pre-2012. Boots often feel slow and restrictive, even if they do keep the feet drier and warmer in the wet conditions Tassie so often gives us. Boots ensure I don’t run, but I love to run. Today I was free.

From The Knuckle to Storys Bluff (our next destination) with Stacks Bluff’s coxcomb visible. Wilmot Bluff is also hiding there off to the right.

I love climbing, so enjoyed the rise of 700 odd metres, popping out onto the plateau into a blast of wind that worsened as the day progressed. Hearing and feeling its presence as we neared the top, we opted to have morning tea in a bowl before we braved the worst of it.

Another from the Knuckle (with Sphinx Bluff stealing the limelight).

Before the top, Pamela and I had sat together on a rock waiting for the rest to join us, gazing out at the Fingal Valley spread before us, filled with mist and smoke from burn offs. The haze added a very atmospheric look to the scene that I enjoyed. The scene was framed by impressive dolerite pillars, whilst lipstick-red berries on the abundant Leptecophylla juniperina and the seed heads of Bellendena montana provided beautiful dots of colour.

The summit of Storys Bluff

Bent Bluff, our first peak, was just an easy stroll to the left once we’d emerged into the open. I was glad of the time we’d spent just below the plateau gazing at beauty, as by the time we were at the actual summit, the wind was unpleasant enough to discourage lingering.

Leaving Storys to begin our descent

Our next destination was The Knuckle. It was good to keep moving. Stopping was as cold as it was boring. It really was not sit around-type weather. In no time, we’d added this peak to our collection and were progressing on to our next goal, Storys Crag. It was, technically speaking, a little early for lunch, but we’d breakfasted early, and had found a spot that was protected, so dined before the summit. By the time we were near the cairn, the wind had picked up to such an extent that I didn’t dare walk along the ridge line, which is what I wanted to do, but attacked the cairn from the more boring north,  just for safety. It’s a one-way trip and no chance to talk about the voyage if you get blown one metre to the south if walking the ridge.

Colour near Storys Creek, having already dropped hundreds of metres.

It had taken two hours’ walking to get to the summit; the trip back would take three and a half (and the elapsed time with stops added in would be 9 hours), as we opted to return to the cars via a different gully. It had an old track marked on the map, but the actual track only has a presence very occasionally. It was kind of handy to walk where the gps said a track should be, presuming that gave a good line through the boulders, but there were no cairns at all until we’d dropped hundreds of metres. Obviously, returning the way we’d come would have been faster, but speed was not the aim of the exercise. One would have arrived home sooner if one had not walked at all if a short trip is the aim of the game.

The creek bed that we followed, which felt more like the Northern Tablelands (NSW) than Tasmania.
Walking in the creek bed once we’d dropped a bit was glorious. You will see on the map where we leave the creek: here there were sawn stumps with scattered cairns on top indicating the presence of a former road which could just be discerned if you concentrated. We thought it might continue long enough to connect us to our original track, but it died suddenly and unexpectedly, so we dropped another swag of contours to eventually pick up an old pad that ultimately took us to a magnificent old road (built up from below), not on the map, and this road led us to our cars. It was a wonderful way to spend a Wednesday, free for me because of its proximity to Easter so my normal debating duties had been cancelled.
Posted on

Campbell 2015 Gussy’s first Abel

Mt Campbell: Gussy’s first Abel.

The steps are big when you’re three

This weekend was my birthday, and it was my birthday wish that we have a family weekend at Cradle Mountain, and that we see if Gussy could climb Mt Campbell. I also wanted to climb Mt Kate with at least one of my daughters (and, considering babysitting duties, it would probably only be one), and to see Guss’s delight at his first huge smorgasbord breakfast (he being a gourmet in midget disguise). I hoped to show him wonderful animals and beautiful forest, but these things were secondary to the other wishes.

No wonder he was hungry by the saddle

Little Gussy has been to the summit of quite a few Tasmanian mountains, but he’d hitched a ride in a sling or papoose. I wanted him to actually climb his first peak, and I wanted that peak to be an Abel for sentimental reasons.

Trying his hand at a spot of off-track

His generally preferred style

In planning, I tired to view Mt Campbell through three-year-old eyes in order not to over-tax him. It didn’t seem too steep or too demanding or too long (as an athlete, I’d run from carpark to top in 20 minutes, so regard it as a pimple). I awaited the weekend to see if it would work.

Whilst Campbell seems to me just a nice mole hill, something you can run up in a jiffy, from the height and musculature of a three-year old, it is actually quite daunting. I saw Campbell through different eyes this day.
Guss needed a rest by the first saddle, which he took 32 minutes to reach. I think some walking club groups might take that long. He was doing well. His appetite in that protected bowl with a lake out each side was prodigious – he ate a salad roll, wallaby bites and shortbreads. The climb thus far had obviously worked up an appetite.

Tummies full again, off we set. He made it to the top in a shade under 60 minutes from the saddle, which included another much-needed, yet short, food break at a lookout rock maybe half way. At the end of the steep section, but before the summit, he plonked down on the ground, ready for more food treats. I thought he’d had enough. Yelena wanted to touch the summit, so I suggested she go there while we stayed with Guss. “No,” he said, “I just need food and then I can touch the summit.” I was surprised and thrilled – thrilled that it was his own initiative to actually complete the job to the end. He’d done the climb. In many people’s books he could be said to have climbed Mt Campbell already, considering he was about two vertical metres below the summit; he had the summit view, and had gained considerable height, but he knew the real top is where the cairn is, and wanted to be there.

Hoorah, the summit. Let’s just throw a rock.

The long trip down begins
In my calculations and imaginings about whether he could do this climb, I had never considered the way down, assuming the difficult part would be the exertion of the ascent. However, job done, summit achieved, little Gussy had had enough. He wanted a cuddle – continuous cuddle – and he wanted that cuddle to be with mummy. Have you ever tried descending a very steep slope with a wriggling 19.5 kg mass half obscuring the path ahead? I had thought Mt Campbell was a toddler-suitable mountain. I realised as we descended that it was not. It is only because my daughter is an exceptionally strong and capable sportswoman that she managed to descend that slope with a tired child wrapped around her. (She was also, at this stage, pregnant with number two).

A bit tricky here

He was unnerved by the angle of the drop and by the way the scree gave way under his feet. At several points we had to pass him down as in a pack haul. Once he was at the saddle again, however, he cheered up (more muesli bars and chocolate), and made it to the end with the promise of being allowed to throw stones in the lake to lure him ever onward. The final hundred metres was done almost at a trot. Any time since, when asked if he liked climbing his mountain, the answer has been an unequivocal “yes”.

Posted on

Kate 2015 Mar

Mt Kate Mar 2015

The current Abels Vol 1 book claims that Mt Kate is “uninspiring”, but I’m afraid I find that an insult. For sure, Mt Kate is no Matterhorn or Cradle Mountain with distinctive shape; she is no Lightning Ridge or Striding Edge with high drama; no north face of the Eiger offering to kill you if you slip, but if you don’t need your life filled with histrionics, then Mt Kate’s quiet beauty has enormous appeal at a different, subtler level. Possibly it helped that we climbed her in the mist and drizzle, but my daughter and I delighted in the variety of greens, the contrasting red seedpods of the Bellendena montana (mountain rocket), the shy Bennets wallabies having a peep at us from the security of a Bauera bush behind which they could retreat if needed, and the plethora of pencil pines in the area, the highlight of which was a grove in the saddle before the final collection of contours leading to the summit.

This is what the early part of the track looks like

We were rather thrilled to be climbing Kate in misty moisty gloom. The lack of visibility added to our sense of adventure. It’s fun climbing mountains with either of my daughters. Today Auntie Lena was minding Gussy; Kirsten came with me. We found the directions at the start to be a little ambiguous, and it didn’t help that I was, as usual, in a hurry to be climbing. It seemed counter-intuitive to head east when the summit was north, and to be on contour when we were there for the express purpose of climbing, an activity that we both delight in. I thus made two false moves, each time following wombat pads that headed to where we wanted to go, but which petered out after 50 or so metres. It also does not help that there is a sign that says “Mt Kate” pointing to the incorrect path, whilst the path you need says “Track closed”. Disobey all these instructions provided by the signage and you’ll get there.

First cairn on the rocky outcrop

 

This is how it looked traversing north. Mt Kate is somewhere up ahead in the mist

So, cross the river using the car bridge. Cross it again using a footbridge and then, having taken the path that says it’s closed, you’ll cross water again – this time a small tributary. Continue on the boards until stairs appear, leading up to the second of the wooden cabins above. Turn right (east), heading more or less for a small mound. If you’re on a pad and keep your eyes open, you’ll pick up tapes soon after the mound, and then you’re on your way.

In the pine grove

After walking for maybe ten minutes, you’ll find a 30 cm high cairn and, although the old road you’re on continues east, you depart on the ribboned route heading now north and climbing up through lovely myrtle forest until you see a huge cairn on a rocky outcrop above, which announces that you’ve now finished part one of the climb.

The cairns (of which there are three) are rather fun, and even in mist with no visibility, are worth exploring. However, if you’re intent on the summit, then resist the temptation to visit the other two (or, do as I did and go there but then return to the first one). A pink ribbon assures you that the way forward is not via the other cairns, but through the shrubbery, heading north to the broad saddle through wombat-sized paths of lesser resistance.

 

Once in the saddle, the alpine vegetation becomes ankle high and is delightful to walk on. Wombat scats in abundance suggest this would be a great place to bring children in an evening for wombat spotting. Enjoy it while it lasts, for soon enough the bush returns to thigh high. However, a treat lies ahead, in the form of a magic fairyland grove of pencil pines, one of which had the widest girth I have ever seen: grandpa pencil pine, standing tall and proud, surrounded by lesser minions. Sadly, off to the right skeletal forms reaching for the sky suggest larger, former dimensions to the grove.

 Approaching the summit cairn

The end of the pines marks the start of the final collection of contours that lead to the summit. The dark shape of Kate was there for us, just visible through the mist, but the summit cairn took us a bit by surprise, coming earlier than we expected, but then, time flies when you’re having fun, and we were both enjoying our little adventure in our own private world, made so by the thick mist.

Returning home after the summit photos, we were aware of the potential for error. Mt Kate is so flat at the top that it would be very, very easy in the mist to be lured into the wrong direction. Don’t venture up here without map and compass, or gps. Tasmanian weather can be dangerously unpredictable. We needed to check direction several times on the way home to make sure we didn’t veer off path. There are so many wombat pads that the path you are on is not necessarily the human one heading home.

 

Beautiful Ronny Creek, at the end, looking up one of the ridges that leads to the summit of Kate.

I had worn old waterproofs that I’d ripped to shreds the week before on the Mt Anne Circuit. We both arrived back at our cabin pretty sodden, but very pleased to have made the acquaintance of a new mountain. I’ll be back sometime within the next year to check her out on a day with visibility, but I have the feeling that seeing views will add little to my first impressions of a happy outing on Mt Kate.

The purple track is our outward route, with errors. The cyan track is the correct route, and the way we returned – see notes above. Note, the highest point (and thus the summit cairn) is not the black dot on the map which I suspect is as random as many of the tracks are.


Posted on

Anne Circuit 2015 Mar

Anne Circuit 19-22 March 2015.

Day one. Lake Judd. Anyone who was superstitious would have believed this venture jinxed on the first day. My friend and fellow fun adventurer, Monika, woke up sick and had to bail out. Next, David, a friend I was going to have great fun sharing photography with, broke his wrist when he slipped on treacherous, slimy boards only 32 minutes into the adventure and had to be taken back to Hobart. Generous Phil volunteered to miss the walk and drive him. Others had to help get his pack and camera back to the car. With such an attrition rate at the start, and with rain driving down, there was a rather gloomy feel and yet those left standing remained excited about what lay ahead: the famous Mt Anne Circuit with all its mystique. We were underway at last.

And still there were seven

Because of the delays and the copious amounts of mud – with some holes on the track being over 120 cms deep (as measured by Stacey’s pole and not her body, fortunately) – the going was slow and we elected to camp down at Lake Judd rather than climbing to the base of Mt Sarah Jane. My disappointment at not being high was mollified by getting to see Lake Judd and its beautiful surrounding rainforest, and completely dissipated later as I lay snug and cozy in my sleeping bag, listening to the sound of the howling, yelping wind up high that reached us ominously down there. On the Lake, there were waves big enough for a midget to go surfing. At one point we had all been thigh deep in water. Our boots and socks were sodden and would remain so for all four days. My dripping gear lay in a ghastly pile in the vestibule; a problem for the morrow. My camera had spent nearly all day in my pack, hiding from the rain.

Day Two. Mt Sarah Jane, and a scary lesson.
Donning saturated, freezing clothes at the start of a day does not exactly cheer, but we got the job done and, shivering, set out back through the glorious rainforest to a track junction, and then up to the base of Mt Sarah Jane. I was cold and enjoying the climb, so when the others offered to let me go ahead, I accepted. This meant, however, that I got very cold up top in the wind, waiting. For most of the rest of the trip, I decided the warmest option was to be up the back or at least in the middle.

Mt Sarah Jane, awaiting our arrival. Mist is just starting to edge its way over the saddle. She looks pretty innocuous, doesn’t she. We took her for granted, so she paid us back big time.
Once you’ve climbed up to the base of Sarah Jane, the hard work is basically done. She looks much reduced in size from that position – a wee pimple of a thing – and hardly to be taken seriously. It looked as if we’d be at the top in about 20 minutes. The others agreed to summit her too, so dumped their big packs and were ready to roll. I already had my daypack on with nibbles and camera inside. Rupert popped in his gps, which seemed almost comically superfluous. I hadn’t bothered with compass or gear. She was right there and a simple undertaking. That said, I was thrilled with the company I was keeping, that they would agree to climb in this weather. Do I need to remind you about how cold we were, having feet that were still icy, despite the climb we’d just done? The day was dull and grey; views were not promising, and an icy wind bit you every few minutes. Any normal person would have said: “Not today thanks”, and left it, but these guys said they’d come. As we set out, mist gathered, obscuring our mountain, but we knew where she was.
After maybe only five minutes’ climbing, the wind gathered ferrocity. Some blasts completely flattened me, so I climbed almost lying against the rock to prevent being tossed into space, a piece of light debris for this malicious force. Shards of sago snow bit my face and stung. Each glance back I could see the coloured shapes of the others through the dense gloom, so on we proceeded, not spreading out too much. Cairns were hard to find and I felt like a blinkered horse. My balaclava was blowing in circles around my face. My pockets had been turned inside out by the wind. On we climbed, surviving, until at last the summit was reached. Up there, I was so cold I was not coping. While we waited for the others, Stacey hugged me to try to give me some of her warmth. I was now into violent shivers. The summit photo was swiftly taken and we turned around straight away. At this stage, Peter was having trouble with his coat. The wind virtually ripped it off him so he looked like a scarecrow, the coat tails flying up above his head while only the arms stayed in place.

Spanner Lake, our tent site on night two, as seen next day from above.

Down we ventured. I was now too freezing to lead; I just wanted to be a sheep in the pack. Rupert kindly took on the respinsibility and off we set, groping our way in dense mist. Suddenly we could see neither the next cairn, nor the last two in the queue, who had, unknown to us, continued straight ahead instead of swinging around the mountain as we had done. We yelled and screamed, but the wind gobbled our noise. Rupert took a gps reading: our route lay 20 ms to the left. Boom. Batteries died. I was so cold I wondered if I would share the same fate. If we couldn’t find the others, that was a very real possibility. Every static moment made my core temperature drop a bit more, and yet we couldn’t abandon the other two. Relief is hardly an adequate word to describe the emotions on finding them. We hugged each other for warmth as Pete struggled with his coat and the rocks to join us. What had begun as the simplest of ambles up a slope had nearly ended in fatality. We all felt humbled by the unrealised potential for disaster we had narrowly escaped.
Compared to that epic, the rest of the day was gloriously lacking in adventure, and we continued on after a brief lunch to our camping place at Spanner Lake. As we crested the high point from which we would drop down to the lake, there was a glorious view of the Lonely Tarns below, surrounded by drama and magic. Gelid as I was, I wanted to capture this beauty, so I delayed the others while I retrieved my camera from the pack and they stood in the biting wind. Peter’s pack cover blew off, but was retrieved by Rupert. I got the camera out of the pack, but then spent five minutes struggling hopelessly, grunting impotently but achieving nothing: I didn’t have the strength to undo the simple clip that would open the bag containing it. No photo of that glorious scene. I sadly placed the camera back in the pack, and on we continued to our goal, which ended up being so awash that we found it difficult to find a spot in which to put tents that had not become a partial, makeshift lake.
Lightning Ridge with its gnarly, warty spine of rocks glared down at us (when the mist parted – briefly). Rain continued. Once more the revolting, and now smelly as well as sodden, gear was deposited in the vestibule while we attempted to warm up in our tiny tent havens.

Climbing Lightning Ridge

Day Three. Lightning Ridge, Mt Lot, The famous Notch. The apex; the glory.
This was one of the most dramatic climbs of my entire life. Striding Edge (UK) eat your heart out. It’s nothing compared to Lightning Ridge. Wow, what a beauty.
The day began in a prosaic enough way, like most other days: on with the putrid, sodden gear, on with the packs, no lighter despite three days’ eating due to the wetness of the tents. Off we set, over a creek at the end of Lake Spanner (whose shape I hadn’t yet seen) and up through the steep forest, knowing that the sharp ridge we’d seen from afar would be at the end somewhere up there in the heavens. Up, up we went, through glorious, but rather surprising forest: it had been raining almost incessantly, and yet, moist and lush as the forest may well have been, there was not one drop of running water to be had. I had not even thought about carrying water: it was the sort of weather in which you just pointed your open mouth upwards if you wanted a drink, but the rain had now ceased, and the strong wind must have dried out the water channels and puddles. No worries. It wasn’t a day that demanded continual drinking. I’d find water somewhere later, and I did, in a puddle in the rocks right on top.

Lightning Ridge, looking back along our exciting route

Stacey and I were together at the front, climbing away when all of a sudden we just popped out into open territory: we’d reached the rocky spine and Oh what a view!!!! Now I could see the shape of Spanner Lake, and all the surrounding dolerite pillars and mountains delicately crowned in mist. It was as steep as it’s possible to be without collapsing, and utterly mesmerising. I hate holding people up with my photography, but luckily the others were far enough behind to give me time to get out the camera and happily shoot away. I was sure they’d want a break anyway – to admire the view, even if not to eat and recharge their batteries. (Still no puddles for the negligent me).

Mt Lot, the view therefrom, and our way forward along that ridge.

The climb was protracted, which I fully appreciated for safety reasons. The times various photos were taken indicate how carefully we negotiated this supremely difficult territory – and the hard section of The Notch hadn’t yet begun. Even before we’d reached this famous stumbling block, we’d needed to do several pack passes – spots where the going was tricky, with a dangerous drop below if things went askew, and where a heavy pack hanging out the back (especially if it behaved in any way unexpectedly, if a strap got caught, or if it changed position quickly for some reason) could send the sad owner on a one way trip to eternity. On they went, off they came, as we sidled around nasty corners or inched our way up or down tiny ledges. Sometimes you’d come to what seemed a cul de sac, the way ahead thin air; the drop below, momentous. “No. They can’t POSSIBLY want me to spring down there! And certainly not with a pack on.”
At one point, we breasted a mound that I thought was “just” the high point of Lightning Ridge, but Rupert announced that we had just climbed Mt Lot. I couldn’t believe it. We were on this mountain of Great Stories. I thought it was still to come. We climbed both summits, just in case, and proceeded on our way. Our mission lay further on.

Lots Wife, as seen from Lot. He did, indeed, leave her behind.

And so, eventually, we came face to face with The Notch (to be said with a slightly quaking voice), for which Rupert had been lugging a strap and carabiner the whole way. Stacey went first, and we watched her (roped) lower herself over what seemed a bottomless pit. When my turn came and I looked over the edge, however, I could see a small ledge that held little fear (seeing’s I was roped). Yes, one lowered oneself, blind, into oblivion, but with the rope, if the fall got out of control, it would be impossible to just roll forever, and after that single manoeuvre, the rest was easy. There was not even a need for rope once that first daunting leap of faith was made. Whew. I had been rather full of adrenalin anticipating this moment.

The Notch. Sue begins the leap of faith with Rupert holding the rope for her.

Once we were all safely down, and rather elated that the worst was now behind us, up we went again, sadly needing a couple more pack removals to give us the needed momentum up slopes where our arms were just not strong enough to pull us up with the extra weight. Not all of us needed this every time, but I used this technique almost every occasion it was on offer: my pack with my full-frame camera on board was very heavy, but I did not regret the weight when I considered the shots I had already taken. Perhaps the others regretted the delays, but I was happy, despite the inconvenience of the weight. I hope the shared memories the shots provide reconcile them if they were annoyed.

Playing around on High Shelf camp, waiting for dinner time. Mt Anne featured.

On we sauntered, happy now that the rain had stopped and the wind had dried us out a bit. The sun even started to make a concerted effort to appear. Suddenly Rupert announced: Here’s our spot for the night. “What? We’re finished?” Wow. It was only 4pm. The sun was now shining. We were perched on a glorious shelf with a magic view. We turned the place into a Chinese Laundry in about five minutes flat, making a desperate attempt to dry out tents, bags, anoraks, overpants and everything else before the sun set. Hot soup was an item that urgently yelled to be on my agenda. I went across to join the others who were basking in the sun, staring at Mt Anne, brewing tea or soup. “This is the life,” I exclaimed and everyone agreed. Who cares about a few wet items of clothing when you can be here, in wilderness this glorious, staring out at sublimity in every direction? The others were drying their shoes and socks, but I knew my shoes would take a week to dry (poor boots, on their debut walk – muddy, scuffed and ill-treated), and I wanted to explore our new environs, so kept my stuff on for a few more hours. Needless to say, we were blessed with a glorious sunset. I stayed outside almost until the last light went: it was just too beautiful to be in a tent with the zip done up. I was pretty freezing by the time I admitted defeat and left the pink valley below me to its own devices.

Sunset from my tent site. The Notch is visible as the gulch to the right on the horizon.

Day Four. Mt Anne for most; Eve Peak for me. Mt Eliza and down.
I was worried about the 8 a.m. departure for today, as I knew that if sunrise were beautiful, I would want time to photograph it at length. Luckily I managed to be punctual, despite being delayed by beauty. I hadn’t been so lucky during the night. I had been rather busy with mild gastro, and my frequent visits to the chilly realms outside were made worse by the fact that my tent was absolutely sodden with condensation. I was feeling very ordinary indeed, and rather weak, as we set out.

Dawn arrives at Mt Anne next morning

I am not a person who thinks that once you’ve climbed a mountain there’s no need to climb it again. Not at all. I’ve climbed Cradle six times now and am looking forward to the seventh, eighth and ninth times. Each time the view has different lighting; new features on the horizon take on new meaning. I run the Cataract Gorge route almost every day of my life and never tire of it. However, Anne has a sloping edge that I find dangerous, and I was feeling quite queasy thanks to my gastro. Meanwhile, I have never climbed Eve Peak nearby, so opted for a new peak rather than doing a walk that I find uncomfortable, to see a view that would be hazy at the top.

Off Sue sets to join the others in climbing Anne.

 

Anne from Eve Peak

I climbed Eve quickly, and got in a view before the mist heralding the next lot of rain started to gather strength. From the top I watched columns of mist rising, and beat a fairly hasty retreat to where I’d left my pack, remembering our Sarah Jane experience of how quickly the mist can roll in to confuse and disorient. At least this time I’d brought my compass. At about this time, the wind picked up strength again. The group had agreed to reunite on the summit of Mt Eliza. I saw no more reason for hanging around where I was. In this wind I’d prefer to be moving, so I went to our rendezvous point and hoped to find shelter. I did. Kind of. It was a long wait, but I met a few very nice people while I was perched behind a rock, and that helped to pass the time. It had been a wonderful trip: I had plenty to think about when not entertaining guests in my lair.

The final descent