Shakespeare, Darkes Peak Mar 2015

Mt Shakespeare and Darkes Peak

At 3 a.m. during the night before we were due to summit Mt Shakespeare, I looked back on the day just past and imagined the moment that awaited: standing on the summit of our goal. I imagined looking with pleasure left and right at an amazing group of tenacious, strong, fit and gutsy people – people gritty enough to brave all kinds of hardships to be in that spot just for the pleasure of being there, of seeing whatever there might be to see (probably nothing), of being in the wilderness and of knowing that we now knew this particular mountain intimately.
The rain began a bit before we did: lightly at first – just drizzle – but maturing into serious droplets as we climbed through the glistening rainforest, gaining hundreds of metres of altitude as we advanced. Spirits were high. We agreed the rainforest looked glorious in its shining patina and were undaunted by the moisture now covering our gear.

The first four photos are taken during the easy, rainforest section on the way up to Wylds Craig. Thereafter I was too cold and wet to get out my camera, and on day 2 my camera wouldn’t work. Thanks ever so much to Monika who has helped me out with summit (and other) shots from the post-rainforest sections.

By the time we had reached 1200ms, just under the summit of Wylds Craig and ready to hive off northish along the spur (after two hours’ walking), the mist enshrouded us, obfuscating all features in the landscape. Our belief in the existence of a spur was a case of faith based on map evidence. There was no visible presence. My compass had a huge bubble and said that all directions were north. I ditched it. Others were to hand.
The spur was thickly bushed, with rocky knolls like giant warts along its spine. The wind from the west was fierce. We tried skirting the first apophysis to the east to evade the wind chill factor which was now making us unpleasantly cold. (The rain continued). Going over was impossible – or, more correctly, impossibly slow and dangerous, which amounts to the same thing. Unwillingly, we admitted that the bush on the leeward side was too dense. Wind was better than impenetrable scrub. Back we went and gritted our teeth for the blast, round “knoll one” which, even at nil distance, was a featureless dark blur in the grey.

For one and a quarter hours we laboured along the ridge, drenched, prickled, buffeted, bashed by unresisting bushes until we were at last beyond Cunninghams Knoll. The Ables book offers two alternative routes from here. The group voted for the more direct of the two (alas: don’t follow suit if you want a happy day). For a further one and three quarter hours we fought adamantine shrub, trying unsuccessfully to force our way through first here, then there, but the branches allowed no passage. We perhaps jokingly toyed with swimming once we were at the smaller lake: we couldn’t get any wetter. It was a ghastly battle and any possible victory would, at best, be a pyrrhic one. We were at least offered some possible relief for the return trip, however, as just as we crossed the creek separating upper and lower lakes, we spotted a cairn: hopefully it would lead us to a pad that was less frustrating and speedier than our way here. I was sure we had lost an hour in this battle.

For now, however, it was 5.40; the day was finished and it was time to pitch the tents in the continuing rain and slough off our sodden layers of weighty, smelly clothes. I sat in my vestibule, shedding, shivering, trying not to get moisture near the inner sanctum. Brrrr. The worst was, these were the very despicable clothes I would have to wear on the morrow. My friends, each in their own little tents nearby, were doing the same (with suitable sound effects). We all dreaded the moment thirteen hours from then when these loathsome items would be donned once more.

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But now, in the middle of the night, I lay snug and warm and cozy in my fluffy down bag, floating on a cushion of soft alpine plants, listening to the rain pattering against the tent and the wind howling above us. What a tough gang I was with. I knew there would be only one dissenting voice in the morning, resisting the pull of the summit (not strongly) and I was right.

Sorting out map details is a real pleasure in these conditions

Horrid as the next day was, there we all were at 7.30, battle gear on, ready to tackle the theoretical mountain to the NE. She even came to say a brief “hello”. There would be no photos for me today: my camera had got waterlogged the day before. I would just concentrate on survival and summitting. I was not feeling at all well.
Through more scrub we went, finding the odd wombat pad to help us, until we reached the magnificent myrtles of the saddle area. I had led us from the tents to this point, but handed over here to Andrew who had a compass. The mountain had once more vanished. He did a great job.

Hoorah, the summit

Our leader chose to attack the summit via the rocky ridge (which is the route indicated in the book), so up we all went, hauling ourselves up huge slippery (mossy) boulders, fortified by thick prickly bushes between. At one stage, we were all horrified to see Colin, who had forged on ahead, hurtling down a four metre cliff head first. We all feared / assumed we were watching death at the worst, serious breakages at the best. Somehow he flipped at the moment before landing to come to a halt in a bush, landing on his derrière: possibly the first time in history that scoparia prickles in the bum have been preferred to other alternatives on offer. His face showed the astonishment we felt when he realised he had emerged unscathed.
On we proceeded to crest a knoll that wasn’t the summit. I could visualise the map without needing to turn my screen on. Blast. We still had a way to go. Down. Round. Up the gully with more spaced contours. Hoorah. And then, at long last – almost unbelievably – the summit.

Jubilant summiters

In my dream it had been sheer jubilation and admiration for my companions. In reality, relief was added to the mix. We hugged and thanked each other for a team effort, took happy summit shots and quitted the scene which offered no vista and a dose of wind. It can get worse. The way back was much faster as we eschewed the ridge.
Back at my tent, I felt exhausted: I must have a bug in my system. We’d only been going nearly five hours at this stage. I dismally stared down the barrel at a possible further five to get out via Darkes Peak (walking time only), and began dismantling my little home.

On Darkes Peak. Pretty dark, huh?

This time we found the pad which saved us the hour I had thought it would (48 up; 1 hr 45 down). From where we emerged, Darkes Peak was a mere 12 mins up, 9 down. It now remained to plod out the section that had taken us three and a quarter hours on the approach. We were tired, but eventually we closed off our long, hard day twelve hours after we had begun it. How lucky I am to have companions who are happy to do this sort of thing with me.

GPS track of the two important sections. (1) We went up Shakespeare by the ridge; I advise using our descent route which was WAY better. (2) I was saving battery, so did not track our route down to Lake Daphne, but here, tracked, is the route with a pad that is an hour faster than our route which left the ridge earlier and angled across more. Coming from the ridge, the top is not marked, but it emerges just before a rocky knoll, the last little rocky knoll that exists before you start ascending Darkes Peak (where we changed direction above). We left our packs at the knoll and summitted from there (untracked).

GPS data: we walked 15 km equivalents on day 1 (100ms altitude gain = 1 km equ); on day 2, we did 30 km equivalents, most of which was through thick scrub. No wonder we were tired!

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