Tag: bushwalk

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Philps Peak 2017 Mar


The story of Philps Peak begins as Day 4 of our Clytemnestra trip (http://www.natureloverswalks.com/clytemnestra/). On day 3, we had planned to climb to a beautiful spot near the summit of Agamemnon, but, most uncharacteristically for me, I had argued that the day was so stinking hot that it would take us hours to lug our packs up there, and that there would be no water for a day and a half if we went there, so we’d be better camping at the hut (Vera) and doing the climb as a day walk on the morrow. Angela agreed, but not with enthusiasm.


This little cairn marks the top of the first chute one climbs up on the way to the first hop, Agamemnon.
We chose a really beautiful camping spot – that is, the scenery was nothing particularly special, but the spot was secluded, set in forest with enough shade to cool but not enough to be dark. Birds and paddymelons visited us. It was just a very, very peaceful afternoon. Past ranger, Terry Reid, had donated a few bushwalking magazines to the hut, so I browsed through them, sitting in the forest on one of the many log-seats available, and organised my pack for the next day and chatted to the new people who later arrived at the hut and came past our idyll on their way to have a swim. I also had a lovely walk going back to the stream where I had noted that there was a waterfall that could perhaps be reached with a tiny bit of an offtrack detour. I was joined in this by new friend, Kent from Queensland, who also liked waterfalls and fungi.


We call these rocks The Four Ugly Sisters. They lack a name on the map. One heads to the left of them on the approach side.
On summit day, we set out nice and early to get in as much distance as possible before the real heat dominated the day. The light was superb, and we had about two hours where the air felt fresh and the light was clear before heat and glare took control. This means we got to the summit of Agamemnon – and even beyond, to where you first have to lose some height – in pleasant conditions.


Summit view. That’s Frenchmans Cap and Clytemnestra (far left) dominating the scene.
In between Agamemnon and Philps, in a saddle before you climb up onto the main ridge that leads to Philps, we found a truly nasty bit of scrub, where the forest was dense and unbendable and a pain to get through. At least the scoparia wasn’t scratchy (too tall for that), but it sure resisted our attempts to push out to the other side. This hiccup didn’t last too long, however, and we have both endured much worse than that, so it hardly marred the day irrevocably, even it did detract from perfection. There must be a nicer way through that stuff, but we didn’t find it in either direction. It occupied maybe thirty minutes of our time each way (guesstimate – I didn’t look at my watch; it felt like that amount of time, but maybe it was less).


Frenchmans Cap in all its glory from Philps. What a grand hunk of rock.
Once we’d negotiated that obstacle, there were no more difficulties. We climbed up a chute to the high ground of the final ridge, and walked along its pleasantly open line to the final summit climb, which was not challenging. The sun was right in my eyes every time I looked up to try to see where the best line might be. That was perhaps the most difficult thing we encountered.


Forest next day on the way out.
On top, the view was amazing. I couldn’t believe how far visibility extended. There was Barn Bluff, days and days away, and Ossa, Pelion West and East, High Dome, Byron, Cuvier, Olympus. So many mountains normally not seen together, separated by many days walking if you are on foot. It was grand.
We tried for a better line through the junk on the way back (of course), but I think this one was even worse. I got so entrenched in scoparia limbs that I had to take my pack off and push it along the ground in front of me while I crawled under the unbendable tangle of wood. I thought for a tiny while that maybe I was going to spend the rest of my shortened life right here. No direction offered the possibility of movement.


Yes, a few courageous (or ignorant / mistaken) fungi are out already, having heard that it’s autumn and not being aware that summer has just arrived.
Apart from that insult, the way home was uneventful. I was looking forward to a swim (yes, this is Louise writing) and ridding myself of these stinking clothes full of forest debris that had fallen down my neck as I tried to push a path through the bosky barricade. In the end, of course, I wussed out. I sat beside the little beach in my undies, staring at the cool waters, but letting the gentle breeze that caressed my bare skin do the job of cooling me down in the dense shade of that spot. It felt like a swim, but didn’t have the inconvenience of wet gear.

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Clytemnestra 2017 Mar


Beautiful morning on day 1 to begin our mission.
When I first heard that to climb Clytemnestra one needed to drop over the edge of Frenchmans Cap, I was filled with horror. Do you know the cliffs that shape the Frenchman, my reader? They seem formidable from any distance. However, the notion of climbing all the Abels had been planted in my brain by my former climbing partner, and had taken root there, and if I wanted to achieve that goal (still not sure, actually), then I needed to conquer any misapprehensions I felt with regard to dropping off the Frog’s hat.


Climbing Frenchmans
Off Angela and I set on the start of this little mission, past Vera Hut too early for lunch, which we had upstream. In case you’re also there in a dry time of year, I’ll tell you that the last water after leaving Vera is about 45 mins up the track, where it crosses the creek for the final time. We arrived at Tahune Hut  mid-afternoon in plenty of time to choose a scenic spot for out tents, to organise our gear, and to go swimming (Angela) or to chat with others (Louise). I must have sweated a lot, as I needed a copious and salty afternoon tea, staring out at mountains reflected in the amber waters of the lake.


Our plan for day 2 of our venture was to set out at 7 a.m., but at 6 the continuing sound of heavier-than-we-liked rain had us push back the time to 8, … and then to cancel the idea of climbing altogether. However, at 10 it looked as though it might be clearing, so we decided to give it a go. Maybe this was a recce, maybe this was a climb. Time would tell. At least it was some exercise for the day.


Getting near our goal by this stage
We were on top by 11, enshrouded in thick mist, but decided to continue this recce business a bit further, and to try, at the very least, to find where we’d drop off the cliffs on the morrow, perhaps saving ourselves time then. We attempted two chutes that ended abruptly in dead ends (excuse the pun), but on the third attempt, managed to negotiate our way down the slippery rock with success, which meant we reached a knoll near the two tarns at the mountain’s base, 1 hr 10 mins after leaving the summit. I was still in recce mode. Angela didn’t comment. On we pushed, now proceeding up the lightly bushed ridge that connected with the main Frenchman-Clytemnestra one, and then contouring around its belly to avoid unnecessary climb. When we rounded that bulge the mist cleared enough to give us a brief glimpse of our grail – way, way closer than I believed possible. Angela was now excited and announced that this was no longer a recce. We were climbing this thing and now. I would continue forward, but reserved judgement on the certainty of success.


The cliffs of Frenchmans, teasing us while we had lunch on Clytemnestra
Into the final saddle, with only some cliffs between us and the summit cairn, I still refused to believe. Up, right, up, right, we climbed, walked, climbed, walked, until, truly amazing: there, fifty metres in front of me was the summit cairn. Only then did I allow myself to believe we were really going to do it. Ceremoniously we approached and touched together.


The route back to Frenchmans. We thought the mist was clearing!
We had lunch on top, watching the mist swirling around us, every now and then allowing a teasing half-glimpse of the silhouette of Frenchmans. At this moment, when I decided to consult my phone which had been tracking our route, I discovered that the battery was basically dead and I couldn’t even see the screen. Our homeward route was thus concealed, but, no worries, we have memories. Off we set.


We have to go over Frenchmans (back) before we drop down to our tents.
There were no mishaps until it came time to choose which chute we needed to use to climb back up onto the main massif. At that time, the mist was particularly thick: visibility was zilch, and it felt like hours later than it actually was, with so little light penetrating the thick clouds. I did not like this at all. It felt like these conditions were set in for the remainder of the day, and we would never be offered a glimpse of a possible route. We were in a nasty cliff maze with no perceptible way out.


Eerie light as the sun tries to break through (before giving up again).
Luckily, before we left home, I had emailed Hobart Walking Club and received a gpx route, which I had transferred to my phone, and forwarded to Angela, who had also downloaded it. Now was the moment to consult this route on the phone that still worked. We could see the other club-member’s track, and our position relative to it, and note that we needed to contour a bit to the east before we would intercept it, and then follow it due north for about 150 ms, when, with luck, an attractive chute should reveal itself. It did. The feeling of relief as we emerged on top, and I knew that we just had to keep climbing – no more chutes, no more difficulties – was enormous. As we climbed higher, safe and sound, mission successful, a kind of golden circle where the sun should be coloured the mist and lent the landscape a temporarily yellowed hew. Everlasting daisies, in funny, closed cups, shone silver in the tinted light.

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Ironstone via Smoko Creek 2017 Feb

Mt Ironstone via Smoko Creek, Feb 2017.


There are myriad different reasons for needing to get into the wilderness, but a large number of us seem to feel this urge to some extent or other, whatever our driving force or motivation. I have a very strong and oft repeated need, and luckily, it is shared by my bushwalking buddy and good friend, Angela.


This summer has been filled with a large number of long expeditions, sometimes involving both of us together, and yet we hadn’t got out, just as a duo, to explore something new, climb something different – seulement nous deux – for several months. Angela knew that my days in the ICU watching over my husband had left me feeling cooped up and agitated, and suggested a daywalk this weekend. What a wonderful idea. I needed the wilderness; I didn’t just want it. Mt Ironstone was the solution.


I last climbed Mt Ironstone in 1988 (with skis on my back, that got tangled in almost every myrtle tree), reaching the summit on a glide. I wanted to return under conditions that offered something to see, and this seemed like the perfect opportunity. The last time we’d used Syds track; Angela too. I had decided that when I returned to take photos, it should be via Smoko Creek. Luckily, Angela had also not tried that route, so it was settled. Now we had something new to do.


We parked near the collapsed bridge and proceeded along the ex road (now picturesque track) to the former parking area, reaching it in 20 minutes. This area offers a turn to the right to Mother Cummings Peak and Smoko Falls, and one to the left to Chasm Falls and Mt Ironstone. Funnily, we chose left. In a further 22 minutes, our narrow pad with metal markers and sometimes pink tape diverged, with one route (left) leading down to the creek, and another (right) up the spur. We took the spur route (neither direction was labelled) and continued climbing, soon crossing Smoko Creek by a log with wires to stop us plummeting to our combined deaths. I would not take children near this log unless they were exceptionally responsible.


The forest had already been wonderful, but from here on its perfection seemed to reach new heights. If you want to believe in fairies and goblins and elves and ents, just come here and witness the weeping King Billy Pines and lush myrtles, the moss, clear pools and abundant small cascades. I was desperate to photograph some of these scenes, but we were intent on reaching the summit. Photos (mainly for me) and swimming in one of those holes (Angela) could come later. I eyed up scenes I wanted to shoot, and Angela tried to choose the perfect swimming hole as we climbed, past mossy caves and ledges, exclaiming about the beauty as we rose.


Eventually we emerged from this wonderland into drier bush, but it didn’t last too long. At first the track was still discernible, albeit with difficulty, but later – in the flatter area near a saddle-zone – it became downright vague, so we just followed our noses to the scree area, and climbed up it to the plateau on top. Once there, it took us about half an hour, at a guess, to reach the summit. Again, it was a “choose your own path” area. We were at the summit three and a quarter hours after crossing the river at the start. Oddly, perhaps, the downhill journey took us ten minutes longer than the climb – but maybe that’s just because we both love climbing, so proceed somewhat excitedly upwards, but are never in any particular hurry to leave our idyll. The extra time to come down does not include the time for photography, swimming, or for gazing while we had a snack beside a pool.


We pulled out of the carpark at 5pm, thus timetabled out of our usual cake and coffee at the Raspberry Farm, which is sad, but it will be there for next time, and the forest and mountain had had a stronger call on our attention.

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Lonely Lake, Meander Falls 2017 Feb


Meander River
I was only half paying attention at the club meeting (wickedly multitasking during the walk previews) when I heard Rolfe mention “lovely little waterfalls” and a Lake up on the plateau above Meander Falls. Now, Rolfe is a classy photographer, and we share similar tastes in what is beautiful, so I checked with him that the walk would be “Bruceable” (it was), and put our names on the list, curious about these extra falls and the lake on top.


First time I’ve seen these falls (Meander Falls) in summer.
I have already been to the Meander Falls, but that was in winter, so it was good to see the forest and beautiful river in aestival guise. Last time I was there we thought of going further up onto the plateau, but it was snowing, and we hadn’t really left enough time. This time it was planned for, so we followed the cairned route (hard to find at first, but you pick up the cairns easily enough if on track – see route below) upwards, eventually climbing the scree slope that leads to the area up top that is covered in beautiful cushion plants and scoparia that had just finished flowering.


The edge of Lonely Lake just visible. Scoparia in late bloom everywhere
The escarpment was well worth visiting before descending. I loved this loop and want to go back in flourishing scoparia season next year to camp there.


See also http://www.natureloverswalks.com/meander-falls/ for pictures of the winter scene.

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Cradle Mountain 2016 Dec

Cradle Mountain (yet again).
“Na. We’ve done Cradle Mountain,” said a relative visiting from the mainland when discussing options of where to go. I was speechless; utterly dumbfounded. They’ve been there once. I’m not convinced they’ve even walked the Dove Lake circuit, but they claim to have “DONE” Cradle Mountain. What is this “done”?

In the summer we moved here with a six and an eight year old, one of the first things we did was to climb Cradle Mountain (having climbed it as uni students shortly after our marriage). I feel guilty that I’ve only climbed this friendly giant eight times. Apart from anything else, each climb is different – different sky, different clouds, different shadows. New aspects of the overall scene strike you each time you summit. So much depends on the weather or the time of day you are there.

But “Cradle” is so much more than just that mountain. The name encompasses a variety of other wonders, such as the Plateau area, with its masses of tarns and fabulous winter skiing for children (we used to walk up carrying XC skis), the magic of the Ballroom Forest, the drama of the Hanson’s Peak approach, the plethora of hidden tarns in interesting crannies within a kilometre’s radius of the summit, and the lines of ridges emanating from the main massif, each with interesting views into gorges below. The forest at the back of Waldheim (or any other approaches to the high land) is “enchanted”; the forest officially called “enchanted” (the one behind the lodge) is not the only one to harbour a magic spell. Wombats forage here; fungi flourish. In autumn, tiny orange leaves make a wonderful tapestry across the pattern of tree roots that weave across the path.

Ancient trees over a thousand years old still stand as guardians of the wilderness they inhere. And what about the other mountains within cooee of the main attraction? Campbell, Kate, Emmett, Barn, Brewery Knob or Recondite Knob, to name “just” the Abels? In the photo two above, you can see Emmett peeping out behind the cradle part of the Big One, and Barn poking its distinctive head out of the yellow to the right. If Cradle is the only thing you have eyes for, then climb these to get a different view of the only thing your heart can hold.


To say you have “done” Cradle after a single visit is like saying you’ve “done” King Lear or Pride and Prejudice after a single reading. After one, you’ve barely scratched the surface. I’ve read Lear at least twenty times (never counted, possibly more … one just keeps reading, and gaining more each time), but I sure haven’t “done” Lear, and I will die before I have “done” Cradle, because she has so much more to offer than a single person can hope to reap, even in a lifetime.

No drama in this spot: just gently, subtle beauty that left us feeling so very calm and peaceful as we sat and stared at it.

Maybe you need high drama: huge pointed peaks and a giddy height if you read the numbers on an altimeter. Although height is, of course, absolute, it is also a relative thing, and a mountain rising hugely from sea level (e.g. Wellington), or from land that is still not very high, can make a far bigger impression than some peer with a greater absolute altitude. But if you do need your peaks to be over 4,000 ms, well, good luck to you. That keeps “my” Cradle from getting too crowded. I am reminded of the story told by our employer in England once, of when he took a man from a nation whose citizens are renowned for wanting everything to be big and bold to the Lake District, and proudly showed him a magnificent lake of subtle and delicate beauty. The man was totally dismissive: “Why Richard,” he bragged, “we have much bigger and better than that back home.” Richard, normally a man who could argue any point, had no answer to that mentality, preserving the story only to laugh at people who thought like that. Thomas Kuhn would say they had reached a paradigm chasm (or ‘revolutionary’ divide), across which there is only partial communication due to the different assumptions each side makes as a foundation to what they think, say or do.

Let us return to this notion of having “done” a mountain, or Tasmania or whatever. As the girl serving us on our way home said, it denotes not a desire to see anything, or to experience anything properly, but rather, to tick a box: “Done Cradle Mountain”; “Done Tasmania” (I’ve heard that one too, from someone who spent a week here). Such ticking apparently earns you bragging rights amongst certain groups of people. Terry Eagleton, literary critic and social commentator of excellence, talked of (in disparaging tones) “the commodification of experience”, whereby marketers had taken up the idea of parcelling and selling experience so people could purchase / consume it. (Commodification is the turning of something that does not normally have a market value into something which is a commodity and can be sold). All of a sudden, your holiday to see Lake St Clair became the “Lake St Clair experience”. Tick. Hapless shopper-zombies were to tour the world, purchasing these “never to be forgotten experiences”, outdoing each other in the outré and adventurous nature of each one. Their lives could not possibly be complete without the X experience, now purchasable for the price of Y (a very big number). Poor shallow, frenetically-gathering experience hunters. Always worrying that the experience they just purchased would not cut it amongst the audience they were trying to impress. Perhaps they accidentally purchased last year’s must-do experience. I’m afraid this blog is failing you, as I have lost track of what is the latest experience you are supposed to have had, and so cannot help you.

But as for me, I will go to places that please me because they are beautiful and have subtleties and complexities that keep me entertained. I will keep visiting favourite haunts because to do so is to renew my acquaintance with places where familiarity means I already know a great deal and am on the watch to renew and strengthen a deep acquaintance. I will mix this up by exploring new places that tempt me by images I have seen or things I have heard of their beauty, but I will not always be chasing new friends, as old ones, ultimately, are more special, just like people.