The location for this photo is perhaps a tad less than original, but there’s a very good reason visitors love to photograph the three main falls in the Mt Field National Park. Of course, one of those reasons is that people don’t have to go too far from their cars, and that there’s a big, smooth path with sign posts: not everyone relishes a good bushbash. But the other, and the reason for carparks and smooth tracks and signs, is that the falls are just plain gorgeous. Here is my take on what captured my attention. I stayed here the night, as we were to leave for the Western Arthurs in the morning at a time that would have necessitated a 3.30 a.m. departure from my home in Launceston, had I left from there. Much nicer to camp in a National Park with the sound of the Tyenna River passing by and the feeling of deep nature all around me. A 7 a.m. meeting time also seemed highly preferable.
One of the reasons I particularly wanted to photograph these falls on this visit was that in tidying up my files, I realised I didn’t have one single shot of my own of these particular ones. I must have had a grand deleting session some other time, or just never labelled my other efforts. The omission is now rectified.
Western Arthurs 2017 Jan. More rain + snow
Most of us who love bushwalking do so because we love nature, and one of the things we love about nature is its ephemerality, and its unpredictability. We can never count on a repetition of a beautiful moment. Its adventitious arrival thrills us precisely because it cannot be arranged or designed by us.
We always feel ourselves particularly blessed to have been allowed to see such a spectacle. But equally, and because we do not get to boss nature around, it sometimes throws weather or events at us that are perhaps not what we would have ordered had we been allowed to do so. We have to accept this aspect of nature as well as the parts we revel in – and, in fact, many of us take a perverse delight in the wild side of nature anyway, knowing it’s part of the whole package that we adore.
Those of us on the recent HWC expedition to the Western Arthurs had to take this on board. Our intention had been to traverse the whole range. For several of us, this was not the first, or even the second, attempt at doing this. First, we had to delay our start by two days because it was snowing and freezing up there, making it unpleasant and even dangerous in spots. And then, while we were up there, new weather reports promised a repetition of this, combined with howling winds. This was not a week to be doing tricky climbing, or to be camping up high. We put our tails between our legs, and retreated, yet again thwarted by the conditions. I don’t mind being out-trumped by nature. I like to think humans are demonstrably not as grand and in control as we presume ourselves to be. Perhaps a little more (and helpful) respect for forces greater than ourselves can emerge from such encounters.
So, what are some results emerging from this weather, other than our turning around and doing yet another descent of Moraine A? Well, all the rain preceding our trip meant that the notoriously muddy Port Davey track was in fine form, with excellent depths of black squelch to be fallen into by the unsuspecting walker, thinking that he or she was stepping onto a piece of ground (wet, black, sodden) like all the other bits of ground. Plomp. In they go. Boots, gaiters, pants all became coated in a thick layer of ooze. I couldn’t pull my overpants off when I got hot as mud filled the zip and it wouldn’t move. Oh well. The positive side of this is that carrying water was unnecessary: it was readily available at almost every step of the journey. (Despite this, tent sites were not too squelchy.)
One had to be very careful about where one pitched one’s tent, as the howling winds announced their presence in rowdy terms. The winds changed direction and force during the night too, catching out certain walkers that we met. Everything became just a little bit more difficult.
It was pretty cold for summer. The lakes did not score swimmers. In fact, my beanie was on my head for almost the whole time – day and night. My coat never came off once, and most of every day I wore both my padded coat and my Event Anorak to keep out the wind. I also wore an icebreaker the entire trip.
I would like to say that a positive aspect of this weather was moody mist and dark, interesting clouds. However, I must say that I found the sky difficult to photograph this trip: it was just a little bit too light, and, as I was on a supposedly long expedition, I hadn’t brought my full frame camera with GND filters to darken things down. I struggled to avoid washed out areas.
I didn’t get to climb any new mountains or tread any new paths, but, hey, a party that only has people you know is not a bad party. I reclimbed things, and explored areas that I knew more thoroughly. I also got to meet new people – both in our group, and amongst the others who happened to be camped near us, or whom we met on the track. Some along the track that I met wanted to complain about the mud, but, really, it is not such a bad thing, as it helps keep the numbers down, and to deter many of the people who couldn’t actually cope with the real Western Arthurs, the high, ferocious, untamed bit “up there”. (The severity of Moraine A also helps in this regard). Take away that mud, attract even larger droves of people in there, and the place will be ruined. It’s already overcrowded to a disturbing degree.
In the course of our trip, we encountered a walker without a map, one without any kind of a rain jacket, people using a kind of tarp-shelter rather than a tent, many people who didn’t own thermal or woollen gear but were relying on cotton garments to keep them warm, people who didn’t own down bags, and many, many people who had no idea of the weather reports. This area is too popular for some of its users’ own good, I fear. If you want to visit the Western Arthurs, do yourself a favour and go to a reputable bushwalking shop to discuss your gear, and please also consult the excellent website run by the Bureau of Meteorology, both before you leave, and in high places when up there, so you can get an update. Knowing what to expect, and reacting appropriately to bad reports, is very important. It goes without saying that a map and compass are essential. This is not continental Europe: there are no cute yellow signs up there, and there are no splashes of red and white paint on rocks. When the mist closes in, it is very easy to get totally disoriented, even with a compass! And once the bad weather arrives, you may not even meet anyone who can help you, as they will be either sheltering in a tent somewhere, or they will have cleared out, to try again another time.
Barrow Falls 2017 Feb
Barrow Falls, Feb 2017.
When researching available information to learn how to get to Barrow falls, and to see what I could expect, I noted that the material made them sound a little formidable. We thus wore our full bush battle gear for the journey, and were not actually confident of reaching our goal: “Don’t worry”, said my husband as we drove towards where I wanted to park and eyed up the rather thick bush to left and right, “we have six hours until dinner.”
I drove down the orange track on the map that I wanted to use for my approach, not quite knowing what would be at the far end. Hm. A house to the left, with furiously barking dogs, and one at the end of the track, kind of opposite, that did not look exactly used. I knocked just in case, anyway. By the time I was back near the car, I could see a lady striding towards her gate from the house above. We smiled at each other as I explained that I had come to ask permission to try to get to the waterfall from here.
“Yes, this is my property. Go and enjoy yourselves. Head down here until you see pink tape and follow the tape to the falls.” What? THAT easy?
“Oh”, I laughed. “We have maps and compasses and a gps system. I thought it would be challenging.”
“Oh well, it’s always handy to have such things,” she chuckled.
Next question: “We have a dog in the car. If we keep her on a lead, can she come too?”
“Don’t bother about the lead”, was the reply.
As a result, all three of us (two humans and a dog) had a fabulous time. Tessa was soon joined by the owner’s retriever, so even made a new friend. The dogs had a lovely swim in the creek when we arrived. The retriever seemed to know his way around very well, and took over leadership of the group pretty soon into the expedition.
Hoorah. A dog friendly walk in Tasmania!!!
Our gps, map and compass did come into use on the way back! There was another lot of pink tape going to a different destination, and I followed it at first, without realising that it wasn’t the original tape of our entrance. Luckily I sensed that things were not as familiar as they should be, and checked our position with the gps – no, we were now well off the old track. I righted it with a compass, and soon enough we were back where we wanted to be. I am also very happy we both wore boots. It was VERY steep in the final descent to the river, and equally steep – and slippery as well – trying to get from the top of the falls to the base. Huge, loose rocks became easily dislodged, vegetation was slimy: boots felt nice and secure.
After all that exercise (16 minutes in each direction to the top of the falls – ha ha) we, of course, needed to refuel our tanks, so stocked up on delectable goodies on the way home to have a celebration afternoon tea. That was a great waterfall.
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.
Champagne Falls, Bridal Veil Falls and No Name Falls 2017 Feb
Champagne Falls. First on the circuit.
It seemed to me a travesty worth rectifying, that I have lived here in Launceston for as long as I have, yet have never visited the Champagne, Bridal Veil or No Name Falls, all of which are accessed from the rustic Lemonthyme Lodge. What makes the matter worse, is that I have stayed at Lemonthyme quite often (they used to sponsor the Triple Tops Race, offering a holiday there as the female prize), and yet we stayed there and did things in the Cradle area, using it as a base rather than exploring its immediate environs. In those days, I was a total mountain freak, and hadn’t quite discovered the joys of a beautiful waterfall. I always wanted to be up things.
Bridal Veil Falls.
Meanwhile, I saw some photos of these falls taken at the end of January, so decided we should go and explore them while the water was still flowing. It seemed like a good-lengthed excursion for my husband (who has Parkinson’s disease), although, to be honest, I wasn’t quite sure how long it would take. Basically, the circuit that encompassed the two falls pictured here took us just under one hour and a quarter walking time, to which, of course, you need to add time for photography and gazing.
Bridal Veil Falls.
We got back to the car, had a snack, and then set out for the No Name, very-little-information Falls. We came to a broken bridge, and had a spot of trouble finding the continuation of the track on the other side (there is quite a bit of flood damage in this area). However, we just didn’t look carefully enough, as, once found, it seemed terribly obvious. On we continued for a further seventeen minutes until the falls. There was a sign leading off to the right to make a circuit, but the level of desuetude of the track was such that I didn’t trust markers to continue, so we returned the way we’d come, which was longer and prettier, I suspected from a brief map stare. This route took us half an hour in each direction. There are no photos here, as there is a good reason why no one has bothered to name these falls in a more interesting manner. I guess they’re a “visit only in very wet weather” kind of falls. The trickle coming down the conglomerate slope didn’t make for thrilling photography. I took a record shot, but left it at that – unless you, dear readers, absolutely insist I publish it, just so you can see what you’re missing.
Now it was time to drive to our favourite Raspberry Farm for lunch, the best part of which was a luscious strawberry cream tart with fresh fruit glaze on top. Yum. I like walks to have a gastronomic reward.