Tag: Tasmania

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Othrys 2016 Mar

Mt Othrys Mar 2016

Leeawuleena spread out before us
Mt Othrys has one of my favourite summits. Leeawuleena (Isn’t that the prettiest name imaginable? It is the Aboriginal moniker for what white people labelled Lake St Clair, and means Sleeping Water) sparkles below, and the broken dolerite pillars jut and thrust their way in odd but attractive directions, making for a jagged and interesting framing of the scene and a dragon-spine skyline.


Blue and green should always be seen

I could have spent an hour up there, or more, but will have to do that next time. On this occasion, we were in a hurry. Angela had been on call, so we could only begin our exploits at 11 a.m., and she needed us to keep to the book’s estimated 7 hours for the climb. That sounds like plenty of time for a 25 km equivalent exercise, and it was – just – but only by keeping up a pretty smart pace throughout the day, and allocating a mere 25 minutes for lunch and photographs at the top, for, you see, this beauty is rather inhospitable to visitors, and the mountain has grown a rather nasty patch of protection to prevent all but the most handsome of princes from entering. We are neither handsome nor princes, but did manage to find a way through. Othrys has a bad reputation amongst bush gossipers, and for quite a good reason.

We lost a bit of time on the way there trying to find the track amongst the button grass plains, but as we figured this was faster than making our own way, persisted in searching for it. We left the pad at a rock with a cairn on top, which fell a bit short of my intended point where the summit-to-path projected line intersected perpendicularly with the path. To put us back on the route I wanted, we headed for a waypoint I had made on this imaginary line, and found an excellent route through the melaleuca scrub hugging the creek at this point. Our route through the forest for at least half the journey was also relatively easy, much better than reputation has it. However, in the upper reaches we struck a band of young, dense melaleucas that left me exhausted by the time they’d finished their sport with me, but we did win through, and from that point, headed straight up rocks for the summit, which was reached without much difficulty.


Different view of Olympus
On the descent, we were able to stay on the rocky nose for longer, it now being visible from above, and had a trip down that was an hour faster than the ascent of four hours.


Summit dragon spine

Unfortunately I cannot give you my normal jpeg version of the screen image of our route, as about 200ms from the top I checked the gps to see how we were going, and undid “screen lock” and then bumped something (I know not what), with the result that my machine stopped recording, not only for the route up, but also refused to cooperate on the way down. It wouldn’t even show me my gps position. This morning it seems in better health, so I have no idea what I did, but there is no track for the remainder of our climb, or for our good descent route, alas.

Should this interest you: The mountain offers a fascinating angle on Mt Olympus and the shapely Mt Ida is directly opposite. In the distance lie many other mountain friends from this much-loved region, while directly below to the other side, the Cuvier Valley spreads out for display, with Lake Petrarch adding more blue sparkle to the scene. Particularly interesting for Angela and me, as we had climbed there only a week before, was a new perspective on Hugel and Little Hugel, with the Cheyne Range clearly visible behind. So many loved places visible at once; it was grand.

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Philosopher Falls 2016 i Mar

Philosopher Falls 2016 i Mar

The beautiful path to the falls
It was raining. We were in no particular hurry to dash up to the Tyndalls, our ultimate objective for the day (and only a one and a half hour jaunt), so we decided it was perfect weather for visiting the Philosopher Falls, which were kind of en route.

The track unfortunately eschews the Arthur River for most of the way, but you do get to cross it at this point. 

The Tarkine here was beautiful and, to my delight, the first of the autumn fungi were starting to appear, set in a context of lush green ferns, moss and lichens. We were excited, but this was marred somewhat by our arrival at the end of the track, which dumped us at the TOP of the falls. Who wants to see a gaping hole with a bit of white splash, hinting at the real thing below? Not me, and not any of the other tourists we met. All reported disappointment.

Being a little more obstinate than your average, I decided to rectify this matter by climbing down the very steep cliff below me (so steep you couldn’t actually see where it went), despite the fact that my camera gear was around my neck, swaying and banging and not in a rucksack, and that I was only wearing runners. Bruce at least had on boots, but is not exactly equipped for such Tarzan acts these days. Down we plummeted, hoping for a controlled landing, and not a death-inducing lurch should one of the branches decay in our hands. (Sorry reader. They’ll no doubt now put up one of those huge ugly notices warning you that this is dangerous, as if you didn’t have the brains to work that out for yourself.)

Landing down by the Arthur River (and still alive at this stage), we still couldn’t reach the falls – or not dressed in the clothes we had on, and not with Bruce, whose capabilities had already been more than tested by this stage; I don’t think too many able-bodied people have lowered themselves down that cliff. I made a tactical withdrawal, and returned to the top, so tense with the responsibility of choosing a route suitable for my husband that I didn’t even photograph the magic fairyland through which we moiled. If you have information on how to get to a spot where you can actually see these falls, I would be most appreciative.

To add insult to defeat, the sun came out, so it was totally useless taking a photo of the tiny bit of splash you were allowed to see. I departed empty handed, but with some fungi shots that I rather love. Hope you do too.

 

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Geikie 2016 Mar

Getting near sunset at our camp spot, day 1

Mt Geikie at last.
If you would like a little shot of adrenalin, then borrow someone who’s had Parkinson’s Disease for fourteen years, and take him up Mt Geikie alone on a misty day on which the way is a point at the end of a compass needle and the route, an uncertain traipse through small and large cliffs and patches of scrub. The mist was so thick at times that the mountain was not even a dark shape in the gloom. It just wasn’t there. And if you’d like a bigger dose, then take said gent through the thick band of tanglefoot (Nothofagus gunnii) and scoparia that runs from The Bastion, due west.

Sunset approaches. The light was eerie – and beautiful

The watery sunset arrives (long exposure)
Last time I attempted to take my husband up this mountain, we got as far as The Bastion, but in the thick mist and with darkness rapidly approaching, I pulled the plug. We had already exceeded my predetermined turnaround time, and I could see no ready way of getting down to the saddle that lay between where we were and our goal. There was no time to search, and certainly no time to try and fail. The mist was ominously dark. I do not regret what I still see as a wise move that day (you can read about it on:
http://natureloverswalks.blogspot.com.au/2014/11/mt-tyndall-and-bastion-89th-nov-2014.html), but Geikie still remained, so here we were, having another go … on a similar day, but with more time up our sleeves to play with. Although we set out after breakfast, I packed my head torch, so pessimistic was I after last time. Don’t be fooled by my photos: they were taken in brief interludes of visibility. The theme for the day was thick mist.

 Day 2. Off we set across a water filled landscape to our goal
Rocks and tarns: what a great combination

As we had all day to do this, I took us on a scenic Tour des Lacs, ever working our way south. It was glorious. However, even with this stalling tactic, we eventually neared The Bastion – the blockade from last time. I decided to be super-smart and outwit this recalcitrant mountain, and not go near the “summit” that had turned us around, but save my husband a climb by traversing directly to the saddle on contour. Smart, eh? Trouble is, the map doesn’t tell you that the band of green oozing out of The Bastion to the west is a very nasty brand of dark green. It is also lavishly replete with boulders about four metres high with vertical walls and no cracks to get a hold. I lost count of the number of culs-de-sac we landed in. Each time, we had to back out and try again elsewhere, yet elsewhere presented us with an impenetrable wall of bush or more rock. By climbing on top of scoparia bushes – wondering if they would snap and dump us two or three metres below in a pile of prickles and tangles from which we could not be extricated – or doing likewise over the tanglefoot (both treacherously slippery when wet), we managed to inch our way southwards. I was stunned that Bruce managed to keep progressing. I was trying to choose a Bruceable route, but there was not much on offer.

 

Here a tarn, there a tarn, everywhere a tarn, tarn
When we finally burst out into ground you could walk on, it was a moment of great joy. The actual climb of the mountain was a snack and quickly dispensed with. It took my husband only twenty minutes up, thirteen down to do the bit we’d come for, once he could begin.
Out into the clear, hooray
And we even get to see our mountain for a second or two before she runs away and hides again

If you assume you’re going to bag a summit with no problems, there is only moderate joy in the dubious accomplishment. You have invested only a little emotional energy in the exercise. Taking Bruce to Geikie, however, nothing was taken for granted, and so we both felt elation sitting up there under that trig. Bruce had done the unexpected (I had thought he’d choose to read a book at camp while I summitted solo), and we were alive to the momentous nature of what he had just done.

Once on top, the clouds did part for long enough for us to get a partial glimpse of our surroundings.

Our best view. We found it quite exciting

On the return, we did not opt to save contours, but headed straight for The Bastion, skirting only the initial rampart by hugging (literally) the cliffs to the east, eventually going up a chute to the top. I enjoyed this route, but Bruce found it tested his vertigo. This was 45 minutes faster than the outward journey! The rest was Sound of Music walking over glorious alpine gardens, decorated with pink rocky stripes and more fabulous tarns. It had been a day of great (landscape) drama and subtle beauty. As we sat back in camp eating our lunch, the sun came out. We leant back and basked in its warmth, in no hurry to pack up and leave.

Me on The Bastion on the way back, taking a peak over the edge at the cliffs we’d been hugging

I made sure the trip back was filled with water too 🙂

We had approached the Tyndalls via the north (Burnie), so I decided to leave via the south, so drove to Queenstown, and then east along the beautiful Lyell Highway to Derwent Bridge, waving hello to my many mountain friends as I went. I have on many occasions spoken about delicious meals had here at the end of expeditions. It was time to let Bruce have this fun too. He was not disappointed. Sated and satisfied, I had to blast us both with opera and sing at the top of my voice the whole way home to prevent falling asleep at the wheel. I am dangerous on a full stomach.

Maps will be added by Thursday

 

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Cheyne Range 2016 Mar

Cheyne Range High Point Mar 2016

Sunsets here were beautiful

The group looks down from the Hugel ridge to our eventual destination
As I described my trip to the Cheyne Range to a friend at Pilates, I saw in her eyes that she was transported away from our concrete room to a beautiful world described by my tale of a wilderness unseen. I saw her longing to be camped by a wild lake with reflections of sunsets and morning mists, and detected joy at the notion of seeing a remote waterfall, high near the source of the famous Franklin River, set deep in a rainforested gorge: I saw my trip with different eyes. My friend’s rapture helped me not to take the joy of my journeys to the wilderness for granted. I already knew it had been a fabulous expedition before I spoke to her, but her delight in my tale of things she cannot see gave it a new dimension. This friend has a handicap that prevents her from going to places like this, although she is only in her twenties. I feel very privileged to see what I see. How lucky we are in Tasmania to still have wilderness worth describing.

Summit view

Orites Falls
This was an expedition filled with water but, unlike last week, this was not in the form of rain. We had lunch by Shadow Lake, walked past Forgotten Lake, drank from a nameless tarn on the Hugel ridge, and camped by Lake Hermione. Hermione was the daughter of the much feted Helen of Troy. This lake is not an insult to the name. That evening, after most had swum, we dined in the warmth of the last remnants of sun, sitting on a little knoll-cum-isthmus jutting into the lake.

Angela, happy at Orites Falls

The second day had more lakes and tarns than I could name – which is especially so as few of them actually had been given the courtesy of a moniker. We photographed the first, walked happily past the second to fifth, had morning tea at the sixth and waved at a few more on our way to the summit with its grand views to so many of my mountain friends. I said “hello” to them in my mind and remembered happy times on their slopes and summits. However, I was rather solemn on top, as I had just lost my phone which, as an object, is easily replaced, but it has a wealth of map data in it that is of great sentimental value, so I was morose. An emu parade and Chris Rathbone’s sharp eyes returned it to me and I was glum no more.

Sunset, second night

After lunch at “Refreshment Tarn”, we discussed dividing into two. Some chose to return straight to camp, while five of us opted to see Orites Falls, which meant parting ways at the next (nameless) tarn. For us waterfall hunters, the next hour was spent fighting scoparia, and I began to regret my decision to come. However, all scratchy things come to an end, and at last we entered a cool and beautiful rainforest and bid Richea Scratch-ouch-aria farewell.

Mist, morning number three

Now came the glorious descent of over a hundred metres straight down a slope so steep the contour lines just ran into each other. The pitch was so extreme that sliding down was the only sensible option. My chosen method was to select a tree three to five metres away as my stopping wall, slide on my bum to it, land against it feet first, recollect myself, choose the next tree and repeat. This spree was not without a dose of adrenalin, which meant I was quite exhilarated by the time my feet actually landed by the river below.


This was not any old river. It was the Franklin whose very name connotes wilderness and beauty. We had seen its source from our summit, and here we were, not much lower than that. The water was clear and beautiful; the forest lush and green. We drank from the magic waters in refreshing gulps and chatted, ate and laughed, thrilled to be there. The beauty quickly erased almost all memories of scrub above, and this was even more so as we eventually began our journey upstream to the falls, sometimes walking in the river, and at others, along the banks.

Orites Falls are a jewel sparkling in an already glorious crown. We were all shocked at how very beautiful they were, especially after some disappointing cascades earlier in the day. The remoteness from any hint of tracks, or signs warning us that nature might lead us to slip or drop trunks on our heads – the sheer improbability that another human would come that way – all helped to increase the special feeling of the place. Needless to say, there were no bits of toilet paper left by tourists of the bush, no plastic detritus that the tourists couldn’t be bothered taking out. Just nature, pure, simple, magnificent. Here was perfect escape.

Back at camp, almost everyone except wuss here went swimming. I was starving and ate an entire packet of Kooee beef jerky, made from Cape Grim beef. I must have sweated a bit this day, as the idea of anything sweet was anathema, and I really craved something savoury like the jerky. I followed it with salty veggie broth and felt ready to join the others for dinner had on our knoll. Next morning the valley farewelled us with a treat of a sunrise – very little colour, but subtle hues and a mist to die for. I love this place.

Route Day 2. That odd blip to the SE is just an aberration, probably caused by the dense rainforest confusing signals. You can see exactly where I lost my phone (gps), in the SW corner. The summit is about 70 ms from the spot, yet the phone took over half an hour to find (after summitting). Pity about flight mode :-(.  It was generally agreed that if doing it again, we would do that southern section of the loop higher (i.e., a bit further to the south) to avoid the scrub.

 

Chris’s excellent route out on day 3.
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Western Arthurs 2016 Feb (in the rain)

Western Arthurs in the rain: Paddy Pallin once wrote words to the effect that one of the aspects of bushwalking he loved was the way it intensified normal existence (my words) and made him newly appreciative of life’s little pleasures. A glass of wine by an open fire is twice as good after a period of deprivation. A bushwalker never takes the joy of a hot shower for granted. The simple things of life retain their power to delight.

And so it was for Angela and me as we sat in The Possum Shed having lunch yesterday. Once we’d descended Moraine A, Angela looked at her watch and announced we could make it to Westerway for lunch. I agreed. She was away, splashing through all the puddles, not caring about mud holes. Zoom. I trotted behind, somewhat laden with my tripod, glass filters and heavy camera. Our packs were now weighty with all our wet gear, but that did not deter. The thought of real, hot, delicious food, consumed in pleasant surroundings spurred us on. It certainly felt good to be there at last and announce to our husbands that we’d be home early. During the night, I had greatly feared that the river at the track junction would be uncrossable, so much rain had fallen, so was doubly relieved. We might have been there for days; I had saved food accordingly.

This trip marked the end of Angela’s long summer holiday. She’d taken a month off work so as to climb Federation and do the whole Western Arthurs Traverse. Through a series of mishaps – disappointing cancellations, fires, bad weather and injuries – these hopes had been greatly diminished. We had still done a number of great climbs, but not the ones intended, and now the Western Arthurs were being reduced to a mere three-day expedition due to weather and my dubious foot. Angela has not explored this region, so was excited even by the reduced agenda. Now she has been there but seen next to nothing.

Unfortunately on day one, Angela was adding another chapter to her book on Summits to Spew on (it had been very hot climbing), so I killed the hours at my disposal once we had selected our campspots, climbing lumps and bumps and photographing, although the light was very dull and flat. Disappointed, I retired to my tent, and watched the grey, matt landscape as I cooked and ate dinner, before going back out to try my luck – returning with a few shots that didn’t match my expectations. I sat staring at the scenery in a trance, waiting for darkness and bedtime. I had by this time, of course, packed up my tripod and GND filters, and put my camera to bed. Suddenly, a flash of colour penetrated my vague awareness. Mt Hesperus was aglow with the final rays of the day which had somehow (and most unexpectedly) pierced through a hole in the thick amassing cloud.

I had no time to alter settings or do anything. I grabbed my camera and shot and hoped. It lasted. I quickly changed ISO, f-stop, exposure and shot again, a woman possessed. It was still there. I had to get outside. I grabbed my boots, no time for laces, and shuffled outside to face the west. There was no time to set up, so I used a passing rock as a tripod and hoped for the best, sighing at the wasted effort of lugging all my equipment up moraine A to now have it sitting in my tent in my moment of need. The sudden flash of colour had woken Angela, so she joined me to share the beauty, and take pleasure in the fabulous scene that was our gift that evening.

By the second day, the rain had set in, but we donned our gear and headed for mountains to climb. The heavy rain, gusting, strong wind, slippery rocks and dark gloom changed our minds regarding our purpose, and we turned our spree into a walk to Square Lake and back. It was time to enjoy the minutiae of nature. The pinky-grey quartzite, green cushion plants and dislimned shapes that appeared and disappeared as we progressed gave us pleasure. It was nice to be moving. The denizens of the ten tents at Lake Cygnus were all tucked up in bed, but that is not our style. The price we paid for our excursion was to return to the tents drenched. Thoroughly, hideously sopping, I peeled off my disgusting layers, dropped them on the floor of my vestibule, and entered the dry inner sanctum of my aegis. After some effort, I was in dry clothes, snug in my sleeping bag, eating lunch with one hand poked out into the open, hoping that Angela didn’t want to begin our journey out after lunch. She didn’t. We spent the afternoon contemplating the existential pleasure of warmth and dryness.

On the third and final day, it was time to put on those tossed, detested items of clothing, a thought that had plagued me during the night, when I wasn’t practising drowning at the hands of a swollen river. It rained while we depitched, but things couldn’t get any worse. Rain was now, quite literally, water off a duck’s back. The track was a ribbon of water, across the grey-green moor, and two sodden girls went walking, walking, walking, two sodden girls went walking, right to the mountain door.