Tag: Tasmania

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Anne Circuit 2015 Mar

Anne Circuit 19-22 March 2015.

Day one. Lake Judd. Anyone who was superstitious would have believed this venture jinxed on the first day. My friend and fellow fun adventurer, Monika, woke up sick and had to bail out. Next, David, a friend I was going to have great fun sharing photography with, broke his wrist when he slipped on treacherous, slimy boards only 32 minutes into the adventure and had to be taken back to Hobart. Generous Phil volunteered to miss the walk and drive him. Others had to help get his pack and camera back to the car. With such an attrition rate at the start, and with rain driving down, there was a rather gloomy feel and yet those left standing remained excited about what lay ahead: the famous Mt Anne Circuit with all its mystique. We were underway at last.

And still there were seven

Because of the delays and the copious amounts of mud – with some holes on the track being over 120 cms deep (as measured by Stacey’s pole and not her body, fortunately) – the going was slow and we elected to camp down at Lake Judd rather than climbing to the base of Mt Sarah Jane. My disappointment at not being high was mollified by getting to see Lake Judd and its beautiful surrounding rainforest, and completely dissipated later as I lay snug and cozy in my sleeping bag, listening to the sound of the howling, yelping wind up high that reached us ominously down there. On the Lake, there were waves big enough for a midget to go surfing. At one point we had all been thigh deep in water. Our boots and socks were sodden and would remain so for all four days. My dripping gear lay in a ghastly pile in the vestibule; a problem for the morrow. My camera had spent nearly all day in my pack, hiding from the rain.

Day Two. Mt Sarah Jane, and a scary lesson.
Donning saturated, freezing clothes at the start of a day does not exactly cheer, but we got the job done and, shivering, set out back through the glorious rainforest to a track junction, and then up to the base of Mt Sarah Jane. I was cold and enjoying the climb, so when the others offered to let me go ahead, I accepted. This meant, however, that I got very cold up top in the wind, waiting. For most of the rest of the trip, I decided the warmest option was to be up the back or at least in the middle.

Mt Sarah Jane, awaiting our arrival. Mist is just starting to edge its way over the saddle. She looks pretty innocuous, doesn’t she. We took her for granted, so she paid us back big time.
Once you’ve climbed up to the base of Sarah Jane, the hard work is basically done. She looks much reduced in size from that position – a wee pimple of a thing – and hardly to be taken seriously. It looked as if we’d be at the top in about 20 minutes. The others agreed to summit her too, so dumped their big packs and were ready to roll. I already had my daypack on with nibbles and camera inside. Rupert popped in his gps, which seemed almost comically superfluous. I hadn’t bothered with compass or gear. She was right there and a simple undertaking. That said, I was thrilled with the company I was keeping, that they would agree to climb in this weather. Do I need to remind you about how cold we were, having feet that were still icy, despite the climb we’d just done? The day was dull and grey; views were not promising, and an icy wind bit you every few minutes. Any normal person would have said: “Not today thanks”, and left it, but these guys said they’d come. As we set out, mist gathered, obscuring our mountain, but we knew where she was.
After maybe only five minutes’ climbing, the wind gathered ferrocity. Some blasts completely flattened me, so I climbed almost lying against the rock to prevent being tossed into space, a piece of light debris for this malicious force. Shards of sago snow bit my face and stung. Each glance back I could see the coloured shapes of the others through the dense gloom, so on we proceeded, not spreading out too much. Cairns were hard to find and I felt like a blinkered horse. My balaclava was blowing in circles around my face. My pockets had been turned inside out by the wind. On we climbed, surviving, until at last the summit was reached. Up there, I was so cold I was not coping. While we waited for the others, Stacey hugged me to try to give me some of her warmth. I was now into violent shivers. The summit photo was swiftly taken and we turned around straight away. At this stage, Peter was having trouble with his coat. The wind virtually ripped it off him so he looked like a scarecrow, the coat tails flying up above his head while only the arms stayed in place.

Spanner Lake, our tent site on night two, as seen next day from above.

Down we ventured. I was now too freezing to lead; I just wanted to be a sheep in the pack. Rupert kindly took on the respinsibility and off we set, groping our way in dense mist. Suddenly we could see neither the next cairn, nor the last two in the queue, who had, unknown to us, continued straight ahead instead of swinging around the mountain as we had done. We yelled and screamed, but the wind gobbled our noise. Rupert took a gps reading: our route lay 20 ms to the left. Boom. Batteries died. I was so cold I wondered if I would share the same fate. If we couldn’t find the others, that was a very real possibility. Every static moment made my core temperature drop a bit more, and yet we couldn’t abandon the other two. Relief is hardly an adequate word to describe the emotions on finding them. We hugged each other for warmth as Pete struggled with his coat and the rocks to join us. What had begun as the simplest of ambles up a slope had nearly ended in fatality. We all felt humbled by the unrealised potential for disaster we had narrowly escaped.
Compared to that epic, the rest of the day was gloriously lacking in adventure, and we continued on after a brief lunch to our camping place at Spanner Lake. As we crested the high point from which we would drop down to the lake, there was a glorious view of the Lonely Tarns below, surrounded by drama and magic. Gelid as I was, I wanted to capture this beauty, so I delayed the others while I retrieved my camera from the pack and they stood in the biting wind. Peter’s pack cover blew off, but was retrieved by Rupert. I got the camera out of the pack, but then spent five minutes struggling hopelessly, grunting impotently but achieving nothing: I didn’t have the strength to undo the simple clip that would open the bag containing it. No photo of that glorious scene. I sadly placed the camera back in the pack, and on we continued to our goal, which ended up being so awash that we found it difficult to find a spot in which to put tents that had not become a partial, makeshift lake.
Lightning Ridge with its gnarly, warty spine of rocks glared down at us (when the mist parted – briefly). Rain continued. Once more the revolting, and now smelly as well as sodden, gear was deposited in the vestibule while we attempted to warm up in our tiny tent havens.

Climbing Lightning Ridge

Day Three. Lightning Ridge, Mt Lot, The famous Notch. The apex; the glory.
This was one of the most dramatic climbs of my entire life. Striding Edge (UK) eat your heart out. It’s nothing compared to Lightning Ridge. Wow, what a beauty.
The day began in a prosaic enough way, like most other days: on with the putrid, sodden gear, on with the packs, no lighter despite three days’ eating due to the wetness of the tents. Off we set, over a creek at the end of Lake Spanner (whose shape I hadn’t yet seen) and up through the steep forest, knowing that the sharp ridge we’d seen from afar would be at the end somewhere up there in the heavens. Up, up we went, through glorious, but rather surprising forest: it had been raining almost incessantly, and yet, moist and lush as the forest may well have been, there was not one drop of running water to be had. I had not even thought about carrying water: it was the sort of weather in which you just pointed your open mouth upwards if you wanted a drink, but the rain had now ceased, and the strong wind must have dried out the water channels and puddles. No worries. It wasn’t a day that demanded continual drinking. I’d find water somewhere later, and I did, in a puddle in the rocks right on top.

Lightning Ridge, looking back along our exciting route

Stacey and I were together at the front, climbing away when all of a sudden we just popped out into open territory: we’d reached the rocky spine and Oh what a view!!!! Now I could see the shape of Spanner Lake, and all the surrounding dolerite pillars and mountains delicately crowned in mist. It was as steep as it’s possible to be without collapsing, and utterly mesmerising. I hate holding people up with my photography, but luckily the others were far enough behind to give me time to get out the camera and happily shoot away. I was sure they’d want a break anyway – to admire the view, even if not to eat and recharge their batteries. (Still no puddles for the negligent me).

Mt Lot, the view therefrom, and our way forward along that ridge.

The climb was protracted, which I fully appreciated for safety reasons. The times various photos were taken indicate how carefully we negotiated this supremely difficult territory – and the hard section of The Notch hadn’t yet begun. Even before we’d reached this famous stumbling block, we’d needed to do several pack passes – spots where the going was tricky, with a dangerous drop below if things went askew, and where a heavy pack hanging out the back (especially if it behaved in any way unexpectedly, if a strap got caught, or if it changed position quickly for some reason) could send the sad owner on a one way trip to eternity. On they went, off they came, as we sidled around nasty corners or inched our way up or down tiny ledges. Sometimes you’d come to what seemed a cul de sac, the way ahead thin air; the drop below, momentous. “No. They can’t POSSIBLY want me to spring down there! And certainly not with a pack on.”
At one point, we breasted a mound that I thought was “just” the high point of Lightning Ridge, but Rupert announced that we had just climbed Mt Lot. I couldn’t believe it. We were on this mountain of Great Stories. I thought it was still to come. We climbed both summits, just in case, and proceeded on our way. Our mission lay further on.

Lots Wife, as seen from Lot. He did, indeed, leave her behind.

And so, eventually, we came face to face with The Notch (to be said with a slightly quaking voice), for which Rupert had been lugging a strap and carabiner the whole way. Stacey went first, and we watched her (roped) lower herself over what seemed a bottomless pit. When my turn came and I looked over the edge, however, I could see a small ledge that held little fear (seeing’s I was roped). Yes, one lowered oneself, blind, into oblivion, but with the rope, if the fall got out of control, it would be impossible to just roll forever, and after that single manoeuvre, the rest was easy. There was not even a need for rope once that first daunting leap of faith was made. Whew. I had been rather full of adrenalin anticipating this moment.

The Notch. Sue begins the leap of faith with Rupert holding the rope for her.

Once we were all safely down, and rather elated that the worst was now behind us, up we went again, sadly needing a couple more pack removals to give us the needed momentum up slopes where our arms were just not strong enough to pull us up with the extra weight. Not all of us needed this every time, but I used this technique almost every occasion it was on offer: my pack with my full-frame camera on board was very heavy, but I did not regret the weight when I considered the shots I had already taken. Perhaps the others regretted the delays, but I was happy, despite the inconvenience of the weight. I hope the shared memories the shots provide reconcile them if they were annoyed.

Playing around on High Shelf camp, waiting for dinner time. Mt Anne featured.

On we sauntered, happy now that the rain had stopped and the wind had dried us out a bit. The sun even started to make a concerted effort to appear. Suddenly Rupert announced: Here’s our spot for the night. “What? We’re finished?” Wow. It was only 4pm. The sun was now shining. We were perched on a glorious shelf with a magic view. We turned the place into a Chinese Laundry in about five minutes flat, making a desperate attempt to dry out tents, bags, anoraks, overpants and everything else before the sun set. Hot soup was an item that urgently yelled to be on my agenda. I went across to join the others who were basking in the sun, staring at Mt Anne, brewing tea or soup. “This is the life,” I exclaimed and everyone agreed. Who cares about a few wet items of clothing when you can be here, in wilderness this glorious, staring out at sublimity in every direction? The others were drying their shoes and socks, but I knew my shoes would take a week to dry (poor boots, on their debut walk – muddy, scuffed and ill-treated), and I wanted to explore our new environs, so kept my stuff on for a few more hours. Needless to say, we were blessed with a glorious sunset. I stayed outside almost until the last light went: it was just too beautiful to be in a tent with the zip done up. I was pretty freezing by the time I admitted defeat and left the pink valley below me to its own devices.

Sunset from my tent site. The Notch is visible as the gulch to the right on the horizon.

Day Four. Mt Anne for most; Eve Peak for me. Mt Eliza and down.
I was worried about the 8 a.m. departure for today, as I knew that if sunrise were beautiful, I would want time to photograph it at length. Luckily I managed to be punctual, despite being delayed by beauty. I hadn’t been so lucky during the night. I had been rather busy with mild gastro, and my frequent visits to the chilly realms outside were made worse by the fact that my tent was absolutely sodden with condensation. I was feeling very ordinary indeed, and rather weak, as we set out.

Dawn arrives at Mt Anne next morning

I am not a person who thinks that once you’ve climbed a mountain there’s no need to climb it again. Not at all. I’ve climbed Cradle six times now and am looking forward to the seventh, eighth and ninth times. Each time the view has different lighting; new features on the horizon take on new meaning. I run the Cataract Gorge route almost every day of my life and never tire of it. However, Anne has a sloping edge that I find dangerous, and I was feeling quite queasy thanks to my gastro. Meanwhile, I have never climbed Eve Peak nearby, so opted for a new peak rather than doing a walk that I find uncomfortable, to see a view that would be hazy at the top.

Off Sue sets to join the others in climbing Anne.

 

Anne from Eve Peak

I climbed Eve quickly, and got in a view before the mist heralding the next lot of rain started to gather strength. From the top I watched columns of mist rising, and beat a fairly hasty retreat to where I’d left my pack, remembering our Sarah Jane experience of how quickly the mist can roll in to confuse and disorient. At least this time I’d brought my compass. At about this time, the wind picked up strength again. The group had agreed to reunite on the summit of Mt Eliza. I saw no more reason for hanging around where I was. In this wind I’d prefer to be moving, so I went to our rendezvous point and hoped to find shelter. I did. Kind of. It was a long wait, but I met a few very nice people while I was perched behind a rock, and that helped to pass the time. It had been a wonderful trip: I had plenty to think about when not entertaining guests in my lair.

The final descent
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Sorell 2015 Mar

Mt Sorrell Mar 2015.

This is the slope we were negotiating

Mt Sorell has a formidable reputation. For that reason, the three men I was climbing with had left it until nearly last on the “to do” list of climbing all the Abels (peaks over 1100 ms in Tasmania). Of the 158 Abels, it was Andrew’s second last peak, and Terry’s fourth last. In fact, this would be Terry’s fourth attempt at the mountain. It does not give away its summit easily. These two men, on their first attempt four years ago, spent a whole day “punching holes in the scrub” to create tunnels of thoroughfare and laying tapes so that future attempts would be easier. They were. Because of their tapes, a couple of brave parties have gone through, finding the going much easier than they had done, and in the process, creating signs of human wear here and there (but not too much or too often) which now makes the going easier. But do not take this mountain for granted. If you think Mt Wright is too steep, then don’t bother with this one. It is not only steeper, but perilously slippery in wet weather (which we had). Route finding, even for the original tape layers, is not easy!

Another view of the kind of terrain we contended with

The forecast for our attempt was mixed: OK Saturday morning; furious rain Saturday afternoon; possibility of showers but also the possibility of clearing on Sunday. That would be our attempt day. On Saturday, we just got ourselves into position and sat out the drenching rain. Mark and I amused ourselves by counting the leeches crawling up the outside of the inner layer of our tents, calling out numbers to each other across the distance between our tents. Mark teased them, putting unattainable fingers on the other side of the fabric, but very near. Whenever either of us put a hand into our vestibule to get, say, our mug, our hands would be covered in leaping leeches before we’d even had time to grab what we wanted. I tossed up whether it was worth the price to cook dinner. Could I flick them off faster than they leaped onto me? I certainly did not dare go to the toilet. My crocs in the vestibule were covered in dancing, writhing, eager searchers for my blood.

A view from higher still … but there’s still plenty left to do.

Down below, Andrew and Terry had no leeches, but were fully occupied digging trenches and sticking holes in the metaphorical dykes to prevent the water flooding their tents. When Mark and I found that out next day, we were very glad to have camped on “Sorell heights” rather than the more protected bowl below. My tent changed shape dramatically with each blasting gust of wind, but that’s better than digging trenches in a storm.

The final saddle on the ridgeline before the summit. use that little bit on the left to climb and we’re there.

In order to make sure of the summit, our departure time was set at a sensible 7 a.m., and, as it was to be a 12-hour day, this was a good thing. We breakfasted in the dark, and set out at first light, through the wet scrub of the lower slopes. Up we climbed. It seemed pretty steep, but the experienced Terry and Andrew told us “we ain’t seen nothing yet”. OK. Mental reorientation. Soon enough we entered what they called the “tunnel of love”. This had taken them hours and hours to forge on that first, momentous trip. Now, thanks to their work, we were able with little effort to burrow through what would normally be energy-sapping, almost debilitating and demoralising scrub. One look to left, right or above and you appreciated the time and effort that had gone into this tunnel. Soon, they said, the hard work would begin. Pity. I had thought I was working pretty hard already. Then began talk of exposed rocks. Oh dear. What was this day going to bring?

Another view of the final saddle … just because I love the texture and form of rocks

Towards the end of the tunnel, we began to enter territory so steep that the next step involved hauls up 2 ms of slippery mud or sheer rock. I tugged for all I was worth on roots or bushes but sometimes that wasn’t enough. At least five times, I needed Mark’s friendly hand offered to give my muscles that extra oomph to ascend the otherwise unascendable. Oh dear. Frailty, thy name is woman. I could do nothing about it but be grateful that these guys had invited me along. Did they realise I’d need occasional help?

Summit view of the land below. (Grand vistas were, unfortunately, not well delineated thanks to the abundance of moisture in the air).

I don’t have many photos. We were very task-oriented that morning. Our goal was the summit, and the only breaks were one toilet stop for two men (whew, a chance to take photos for me) and one stop for shedding a layer (more photos for me). Apart from that, it was purposeful progress directed towards the summit. Once we breasted the ridge, with about 1.25 kms remaining to traverse the tops to the actual summit, the going was, of course, easier, and then there was a tiny climb (144 metres) up the last, pretty easy slope.

Two of the others approaching the actual summit from a rise that I had thought, whilst climbing, would be the real summit. I love photos that put tiny humans into the perspective of the grandeur of nature. 

I went right of a creek, the others set out left. The sun was in my eyes so I could see very little and lost track of whether the others had crossed over to my route or had remained left. I couldn’t see them, and no longer knew if they were ahead or behind, but figured we’d connect with each other on the summit. With excitement I viewed the trig, but didn’t go any closer than twenty metres to it. Terry and Andrew had forged the track. Without Mark’s hands I would not be where I was. I wanted to be the last to touch the actual goal of all this effort. I was the one who had done the least. I wasn’t even sure how or why I had been invited, but I did know I was exceptionally grateful.

Crossing Clark River on our return

It took us four hours from the tent to the summit. We had time there to indulge in photos and food before we began our descent, but even then, we didn’t waste too much time. Our goal was won, but our job was not yet done. This was to be a big day. Luckily, the bum slide down the mountain was very quick: a mere two hours of pretty good fun, which meant we could relax a tiny bit to eat lunch and pack up our tents before the next stint of climbing back up to the Darwin ridgeline and dropping way, way down to the cars at the start, a trip that would take us 3 hours plus a couple of stops. The river had flooded a bit overnight, so some time was lost sorting out the best crossing point. I just wanted to keep my camera and sleeping bag dry (translated: I didn’t want to fall in) and was prepared to get my feet very wet in order to prevent toppling in a misguided attempt to be fancy by trying keeping my shoes dry. My boots were sodden and made rude, slushing noises for the rest of the trip.

This is the way I, too, chose to cross: maximum water logging, minimum risk of falling. I didn’t want to leap across slimy rocks.

At last we got to the cars, made it to Queenstown to find all opportunities for real food had already closed, so settled for a meat pie to fortify us for the very long trip home. I drove to the “wild life highway”, and Terry did the rest. I tried to stay awake for his sake, but rather fear my talk sounded like that of an inebriated fool – slurred and not terribly sensible. I was aware of dropping off mid sentence at times, possibly with increasing frequency as the time snuck over the midnight barrier. We pulled in at something near 1 a.m. The dinner Bruce had made, hoping for an earlier arrival, smelled good. I don’t often have midnight feasts, but succumbed this time.

This is our route from the car to the tent site (and return later the next day

 

And this is our route from the tent site (waypoint) to the summit return. You will note that the contour lines are so close together they just make a brown smudge on the map.
Track data: All up, just on Sunday, we walked 17.8 kms, and climbed (and dropped) 824 ms + 467 ms. This yields a total of 30.7 km equivalents for the day.

 

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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.
****
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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Collins Bonnet 2014 Feb

Collins Bonnet, 2014 Feb

View from summit to sea

What do you do if you have time on your hands in Hobart? Go shopping? Not in your life. For me, the answer is to use the time to climb a mountain, and that’s just what I did last Thursday, having driven down earlier than needed for safety reasons.
Having breakfasted at home in Launceston (taking care to pump myself full of caffein), I drove down, bypassing not only boring shops but also alluring cafes and brasseries, and went straight to the Big Bend on Wellington. Work first, reward later.

View along summer ridge

I had chosen a route to climb Collins Bonnet from here, as I will use the Myrtle Gully track some other time to climb Trestle Mountain, and I only wanted to do one mountain today. This route is longer in distance (and time) than the alternative, but I was in no rush. I had snacks on board and not having any kind of time estimate did not bother me. Maybe some time in the future I’ll compare times with the other way.
Off I set along the trail in the clear mountain air … down and then along past an open marshy area (no snakes today, which pleased me) up past Mt Connection that I climbed a few weeks ago, down to a saddle, mildly up on a widish forest road and at last I was climbing the actual mountain I had come to see. (More detailed information is on the relevant map. I will post my route when I retrieve my phone).

View towards Wellington (and my bagged Mt Connection).

As I sat on top, munching shortbreads, drinking spring water and surveying my temporary kingdom, I gazed across to Wellington from whence I’d come, a mountain with a far more extensive vista than the one I was on. However, I knew exactly which mountain I would prefer to sit on. Where I was, I could hear nothing but the solitude of wilderness, feel nothing but space and peace and the freedom and independence that accompany an excursion such as this. Here there is music for my soul.
I am always a little worried when I’m not carrying lunch that my shelf-life, which seems remarkably small to me, will terminate before I get to the end if I linger too long. I need feeding at very regular intervals and didn’t want to be late for a now much-needed lunch, so walked with purpose back to the car and, by implication, back to the fine food vendors of Hobart. YUM.
1 hr 49 from Big Bend to top. 10 mins eating. 1 hr 50 back. Total exercise: 3 hrs 39 mins.

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Nicholas 2015 and Huntsmans Cap. Jan

Mt Nicholas and Huntsmans Cap. Australia Day, 2015
While others enjoyed their lamb Barbies, a group of us defied the Australia Day template and ate salad rolls or snacks on top of a mountain (well, two actually). In deference to my broken hand, I’ll make this primarily a picture post.

The wonderful towering palisade that guards the summit of Mt Nicholas.

I knew from my last visit that none of these chutes give safe access to the top – but I also know they’re fun to explore. This is a grand mountain with lots of interest for rock lovers

The gang on the summit of Mt Nicholas

Huntsmans Cap, our next destination, as seen through the trees from the flanks of Mt Nicholas

When one climbs Huntsmans Cap, one emerges on a rocky spine that is then followed for quite a way, over a series of would-be summits until the real summit is reached at the end. Huntsmans Cap is an Ablettte.

Cresting the lower part of the spine of Huntsmans Cap

The real summit of Huntsmans Cap, with the sea beyond, at the end of the enjoyable rocky spine that operates as its conduit. (Map of routes to come once I’ve got the phone battery recharged to enable download.)

Map showing both walks. On Mt Nicholas, the cyan route is a former one; today’s route is in purple. We went up by the fascinating rock formations and cliffs, but opted to return straight down in an unimaginative but efficient line to the road, which we then followed to the car.