Tag: bushwalk

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Evercreech Falls 2017 Apr

Evercreech Falls.


The Evercreech Falls were the second part of the walk I was leading yesterday. (See natureloverswalks.com/mt-blackboy/ for part one) I would never normally have gone to the Evercreech Falls at this time of year. I knew it was too dry for both a decent flow and for the fungi that I so love seeing, but the club wanted me to do it, so I agreed; I like to give back as well as to take when it comes to club bushwalks. I intended, however, to do it when the waters were running and the fungi were out, which is not early April. Predictably, the fungi were desiccated and the falls offered only a moderate flow. These photos are what I managed to see under the club-type conditions. Thankfully my charges didn’t mind waiting while I took a couple of thirty-second exposures. (Setting up actually takes an inordinately long time – especially when you know you’re holding others up.) I’ll redo the long drive some time in late May after enough  rain has fallen to reawaken the forest and invigorate the falls. Until then, this is the best I can give you.


When you arrive at the forest reserve, there is a big shelter to your right, and an ugly metal bridge to your left. The loop, if you choose to do it, begins at the far end of the road if you go anticlockwise, or at the ugly bridge if you go clockwise. You can go up and back on the western side (i.e., using the bridge), and thereby avoid the creek crossing pictured above. Two out of five of us fell in negotiating this rope (only up to their knees). The group I led took 18 minutes going on the right hand side of the loop (eastern, over the creek as above) and 18 minutes back on the other side, so the forty minutes is, if anything, a bit of an underestimation, as it allows for only a couple of quick snaps at the falls. Of course, I wanted longer than that. (One starts at the southern end of the track, if that isn’t clear).
The route we took in cyan below is not on the map, and before going, I could not find any information on exactly where the track went. I hope this information helps.

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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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Quaile Falls 2017 Mar


Every time we drove to Cradle Mountain and saw the old wooden sign attached to a tree saying Quaile Falls, I wanted to see what they looked like, and yet, every time, I was repelled by the other, much bigger and louder sign, there in its red and white starkness, announcing that this was Private, and that I should Keep Out. In addition, we were always either in a rush to get to the mountain, or equally anxious to get back home. Quaile Falls didn’t get a look in. Besides, how much time did one need to do this trip? Did one go right past the indignant owner’s house? What lay in store if one went down that road?


Upper Quaile Falls, encountered after fifteen minutes’ walking.
My curiosity was further ignited by the knowledge that a few friends had recently been there, and I felt it was time to find out how things lay. However, I had long since realised that a “we’re-passing-by-so-we’ll-just-call-in” kind of trip wasn’t going to happen. These falls required their own dedicated journey. And so, last week we set out to visit them in their own right, unaccompanied by any other purpose.
I retrieved how-to-get-there information from the Waterfalls of Tasmania website and off we set. The alluring sign that had attracted me for so many years was gone, but the dirt road remained, on the map northish from the falls themselves (and before the turnoff to Cradle), and leading down to near where the falls are. According to the web, there would be a small parking area (correct) with a sign pointing in the direction  of the falls, and pink tapes to set us on our way (all correct).


Olivia Creek
From the main Cradle Mountain Road (C13), looking south in the direction of the falls, you would never believe that such lovely myrtle forest was so close at hand. It looks quite barren and dry from the road. The track through the forest felt ancient. I guess it wasn’t private-keep-out in some bygone days of greater generosity; no doubt, before our legal system decided that if I fell on your land it was all your fault for owning it, and not mine for being careless. I can hardly blame the owners for trying to keep us out in the current state of affairs. I would too.


Actual Quaile Falls
As my source said, it was fifteen minutes to where I could first hear the Olivia Creek, and just beyond a creek junction to my right, lay the Upper Quaile Falls, which I actually found to be more attractive than the real ones, which, to be sure, have a huge drop, but the latter are a rather unadorned straight line, and at present, have quite a lot of debris at the bottom. The actual Quaile Falls were a further fifteen minutes from the Upper ones.


The top of the falls was a beautiful forest with gurgling, clear stream cascading over rocks and making lovely pools. I parked my husband there and said I’d be thirty minutes, planning to climb down the cliffs to the bottom. Thirty minutes was a gross underestimation. There was no pad that I could find leading to the base, so I made my way down the very steep slopes, over, around and under massive amounts of fallen timber, sliding down what I hoped I could later climb up, until I got to a spot that I decided was “good enough”. I’d used up too much time doing that much. My husband would be worried. Another tier lay below. That could wait until a day that I had someone with me. That would feel nicer. I took some shots from where I was and called it quits.
We had lunch back near the car at the edge of the forest, and were home in time for me to have a run in the gorge. The trip to Quaile Falls was a great outing, but I hadn’t exactly used up a lot of energy.


(The Road name you can’t quite read is “Dove River Road”)

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Balfour 2017 Mar

Mt Balfour, Balfour Ghost town, and Frankland River Walk.  Tarkine day 3.


After breakfast overlooking the Pieman River with its beautiful reflections at Corinna, we continued on our way north, driving for about an hour and a quarter at moderate pace to reach the foot of Mt Balfour.
This mountain was short and very, very steep – so steep I was wondering how I was going to get my husband back down it. (He has Parkinson’s disease, if you are not used to reading this blog and find that an odd comment). Some sections you had to hang onto the grass to avoid rolling the whole way back down the hill. In fact, I watched a German girl girl doing precisely that as we neared the end on the rebound. She was wearing thongs, and had nothing to keep her foot attached to her shoe, so it slid out backwards. On the way up, I clutched grass and small bushes to avoid rolling backwards, and on the descent, I used the shrubbery rather than the ballbearinged 4WD track, as did my husband. He would have had a bad accident had he tried to stay on the track. The track just goes straight up, with no mucking around.

Steep it certainly was, but, as I said, it was also short, so I only took 27 minutes to the top – but 31 down. When you take longer to descend than to climb, you know this is a really steep slope. On top, we all enjoyed a snack just for the heck of it – because you snack on a mountain, even if it was only a tiny trip up – while some members girded their loins for the feared descent.


Next on our programme was a visit to the rather eerie ghost town of Balfour. Why eerie? For me it was, as apparently there are the graves of four hundred people who died in 1912 from typhoid. The “town” itself only has a few old tin shanties, but to think of such a large number of people living and working there, all quickly dead was rather horrifying. The doctor, whose grave remains, was only thirty when he died; Sylvia was fifteen. Most of the graves are no longer visible – perhaps there was just a mass grave at the height of the epidemic. I enjoyed the leafy tunnel that constituted the bulk of this walk, although the Frankland River, wild though it well may be, was not at its most attractive in midday glare. I didn’t bother photographing it, even though I did enjoy the leisurely stroll.


That night we slept on the West Coast, and that I DID photograph – with a vengeance. So many photos did I take that I’ll give the evening of Day 3 its very own blog (posted tomorrow).