Tag: Tasmania

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Macs Mountain and Walled 2014 Jan

Macs Mountain, Walled Mountain and more

Mt Eros from Lake Elysia, dawn.

It might surprise many readers to hear that I gave up bushwalking on Saturday evening. The problem wasn’t that I’d been wet for two days – I’m used enough to that. And it wasn’t that I hate my little tent that gives me the freedom to sleep wherever I want in the wilderness, or that I was bored in its confines with my husband, cooped in there from 3pm after we’d given up ploughing through wet scrub in the rain. I’d brought a great book that he read aloud so we could share it (Max Frisch’s Blaubart / Bluebeard). No; I was frustrated by my own ineptitude that had landed us so often that day in cul de sacs of impenetrable scrub. I decided I was a lousy bushwoman, and incompetent leader – a race horse that should now be sent to the knackers. Time to drop out.

 

Mt Geryon and the Acropolis, dawn. (Labyrinth)
I took up bushwalking again at 5.30 next morning. My husband woke me and told me to hurry outside. I grumpily looked out of the flap, still too sleepy to be easily impressed. That quickly changed. The air was crisply, wonderfully clear. The tarn that poses as a lake (Elysia) beside our tent was a perfect mirror reflecting Geryon and the Acropolis to our north, each of which was a dark silhouette in a sky that was only just beginning to lighten. A soft layer of mist wove around the surface of the water. Who cares about one’s own ineptitude when greeted with a sight like that? We watched in wonder as the sky lightened to roseate hues, changing position every now and then to climb little hillocks or go out on a rocky lead that took us into the lake a bit so we could see around the corner to Walled Mountain which began to turn red as the sun gained in intensity.
 
Walled Mountain
We were hoping to meet friends and climb Macs Mountain with them this day, but it was so lovely where we were we were disinclined to move; we had no idea where our friends might be, given that their plans had also probably changed due to the previous day’s rain; and our tent was so sopping that packing it up before the sun had had time to dry it out a bit had no appeal. We lingered longer. I was also not looking forward to the scrub I had had to negotiate to get us where we were. Eventually we set out, and I made speedy, almost scrubless progress straight to our destination, covering in 11 minutes what it had taken us 26 minutes to do the day before. At last I could navigate again.
 
Acropolis
Mt Geryon

My husband, who has Parkinson’s disease, was in fine form. We made it with fully loaded packs from Lake Ophion to the summit of Walled Mountain in under an hour, and there on the top were our friends, who had spent the night at Lake Eurynome. At a tarn just a bit below the summit, we looked up and saw them arriving at the top and taking the obligatory summit group photo. We had not even held them up. Hoorah. We pitched our tents by a tarn near the summit (their tents were still sopping as they had set out before the sun had had a chance to dry them, so we all pitched before we left) and we were all ready soon enough to tackle Macs Mountain to the west, in blissful ignorance of what lay ahead.

 

Mt Eros and the Du Cane Range
On the map, Macs looks a lovely little scamper – dash over the smooth, contourless plateau behind the cliffs of Walled, over a tiny hump, through a bit of a saddle, and up the side of Macs. Fun. Ha, ha. The plateau section was as expected. The “bit of a hump” was a ridge line of dolerite lego pieces turned on their sides with spaces between that would kill if you missed when jumping from one to another. I was happy on such rocks, but knew my husband would be hesitant. I didn’t dare to even look, but he was fine, so I was greatly relieved. 
Then we came to a drop that was so sheer you couldn’t see beyond the plunge. I thought my husband had reached his turn-around point, but no, down he went, very early in the queue so that if he sent rocks flying, there would be minimal damage done below him. I chose the bushes to the side of the chute, and had fun on a steep slippery slide to the base.
 
Gentianella diemensis plantaginea 
And at that point, the hard stuff began. I gave up trying to time what we were doing (I normally time everything), as we spent so long staring at painful walls of nasty stabbing scoparia or blockages of melaleuca that demanded a password we were not in possession of that I decided we weren’t going to make our destination. Time was running out. We needed light to safely negotiate the rocky ramparts on the Walled ridge line, and time was hurrying on – but we weren’t. We had set out at around midday, and had enjoyed lunch on the way, but everyone was now getting low on water – the day had been so hot we had been drinking regularly and plentifully from our finite sources – and the general pace was slowing in response to fatigue and thirst. The scoparia was not abating. The wall of scree that actually represented Macs Mountain looked at the same time both daunting and still tantalisingly far away. Would we ever make it in time? 
 
 Minotaur, Gould, Olympus, Byron and more en route to Macs.

Things improved. We found a lead of pineapple grass that helped the pace, and eventually arrived at the wall of medium-sized boulders that formed the face of our mountain. They looked as if they’d all tumble down at the first response to a footfall. You couldn’t see the top, so I wondered if the pile of rubble in fact lead to an impassable cliff just out of eyesight. Pessimist. Others started up. No rocks fell. They disappeared into the blue yonder. Time to give chase. What a super fun climb! On all fours I scaled up the height in no time. This was the easiest part of the whole day, and highly enjoyable. I revel in climbs like that. And there was the summit cairn at last. Unbelievably we had made it. And perhaps more unbelievably, so had my husband, whose doctors had told him many years ago to stick to even surfaces, flat and with handrails. HA.

 

Hyperion from Walled ridge
The return route was much better, as we followed pineapple grass and a gully (that even had some drinking water in it) down to the left of the saddle between Macs and Walled. We chose the largest boulder chute to climb back up and that climb (rejected on the way down) was quick and painless. The bulwark ridge line protecting Walled from invaders provided no protection from our bunch, and as the mountains turned to soft blue silhouettes in the fading light we reached our tents in sufficient time to quickly cook dinner and eat it whilst watching the effects of sunset on the vista around.

Dawn from the summit of Walled (to Geryon)

 

Dawn over Lake St Clair (Gould)

Dawn looking towards Hyperion

Dawn looking towards Macs

The next day we had a busy agenda. After witnessing (and photographing the dawn, we had to pack, get down our mountain, and cover the distance to the afternoon ferry before it left without us. Some of us wanted to climb the Parthenon as well (which we did), and others wanted to play chasings with their runaway tent across the mountainside, which was a fun sport and source of much mirth. 



The pace was hot to reach our destination, and the waters of Lake St Clair deliciously cool in contrast. Unfortunately, the afternoon ferry arrives after the Hungry Wombat kitchen has closed, and before the Derwent Pub is prepared to give you food. Starving for a burger with the lot, I drove home trying not to fall asleep.

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Patrick and Penny West 2014 Jan

Mt Patrick and Penny West

Summit, Mt Patrick

In a creative and explorative mood, I ignored the suggested parking area for Mt Patrick and continued driving northwards to see what would happen. This northwards route took us past our intended mountain (Mt Patrick) to the west (or so the map said – we had not sighted it, but we could see where it should be) and then curled east. When my gps said we were due north of the still invisible mountain we parked and got out all our normal daywalking gear – small pack, water, several snacks, anorak, warm coat, gloves, cameras, thermals in case it got cold, and a little umbrella for photography. Gaiters on, and we were ready to set out over the rocky (not bouldery) ground and into the bushy thickets that lay ahead.

Lomatia tinctoria (Guitar plant) Mt Patrick 
Nine minutes later we were standing in shock on the summit. “I think we were over-equipped for this one,” mused my husband wryly. The return journey was even shorter – seven minutes – as I was more confident. One Abel for the day down already.
Leptecophylla juniperina, which formed the understory for most of the route up Penny West 

Now, this produced a distressingly short day, and an egregious car to walking ratio, but luckily a friend (Rohan) who knew what we were up to, told me to make sure I took in Mt Penny West while in the area. I hadn’t noticed it on the map at all (which is hardly surprising, as it is off the map, hiding on the next map to the south, just over the edge). Had he not said that, we would have driven home and gone running instead. However, furnished with a photo of the map that he sent me, we parked on the recommended ridge and set out once more to conquer Abel number two for the day. Same gear. This one took us a tad longer than the fifteen minutes the book said, but we were still on top tidily under half an hour. We had not sped through the swathes of Leptecophylla juniperina which is now at the attractive lipstick berry phase – but is always at the ‘ouch’ phase.

Summit, Penny West
 I had not bothered keeping an exact bearing – one can hardly get lost here – and came to a very shapely little summit that looked most worthy of a climb. However, as I admired the view, I could see that even though my gps said I’d gained the right height, there was another mound, less shapely, to the north that was definitely higher. Off we set. Now we were on the summit. We took victory photos of said summit and its views, and enjoyed some of our snacks while gazing out to the water, and admiring a lonely bright yellow Leptorhynchos squamatus (scaly buttons). The only thing amiss was that I was sure the book had spoken about a “structure” at the top. My husband suggested I was confused, mixing this mountain with another.

Finished with eating and all packed up, I turned to leave. My husband wasn’t ready, so I swung around the other way to see what he was up to. And there, perfectly camouflaged and hiding in the tree tops of eucalypts that began further down, barely discernible and easily missed, was something that could be a pile of rocks. I squinted and glared. Yes it was. Now I needed to explore it too, as it looked higher than where we were. As I got nearer, I saw it had a “structure” a kind of beehive made of piled rocks. At last, third attempt, we’d found the true summit. I didn’t need more snacks, but we did touch and photograph it before descending. The way back was spiced up by the presence of “pixie cups” lichen, cladonia pleura. It was no faster than the way there. And after that it was full steam ahead for lunch in Longford.

The beautiful fairy cups of the lichen cladonia pleurota.  
For those intending to climb Mt Patrick, please note that it is on private property and has two locked gates to get through. The details of how to get keys that are in the Ables book are now out of date, as the property was sold two years ago. The person you now phone is Ingrid, on 03 6259 8204 or 0428 314 561. The cost is now the princely sum of $5 per head. My husband has pointed out that 20 cents to enter the Evandale markets is even better value if you don’t like quick Abels. 
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Perrins Bluff, Mt Achilles, Mt Thetis 2014 Jan

Perrins Bluff, Mt Achilles, Mt Thetis Jan 2014

Dawn on the final day
I am a person haunted by images, and the names above now evoke a series of wonderful mental pictures. They also connote smells of lemon scented boronia and agastachys odorata, and scenes of our group of hot, tired walkers trying to force a way through the bushy wall that confronted us as we climbed to more picturesque regions.
My story will begin with the first night, at Frog Flats, where we could see our destination up ahead. I had not actually wanted to camp here, but was somewhat placated by the gilded button grass and the numerous incandescent candelabras of bellendena montana, set aglow by the sinking sun.
Pelion West from Perrins Bluff
The trip from Frog Flats to Leonards Tarn is one of those “end justifies the means” journeys. The lower scrub was thick. There was a brief respite in some rainforest, and then the bush got even thicker. It took us three solid hours of shoving to get there, plus another hour spent in waiting, decision making, eating etc to bring the total to four. On several occasions I got spectacularly, almost irretrievably wedged between saplings that just wouldn’t budge despite my best attempts. They’d bent nicely for the five guys with me, but would not yield to my tiny frame. I decided that if I had been doing this solo, I would have died a lonely death by starvation or dehydration, permanently stuck. Maybe like Pooh Bear, clamped in the hole of Rabbit’s entrance after indulging in too much honey, I would have eventually thinned down enough to allow a weak escape.
 

Perrin’s spine from one of its many saddles
From Leonards Tarn onwards, things got better with each passing moment, (almost) justifying the scratchy approach. We quickly gained height and views as we skirted around Achilles to the left and climbed onto the Achilles-Perrins saddle with its picturesque tarns – a perfect camping spot.
From there we stayed to the right of the mountain in the scrub (nothing compared to the battle-fire fight of the morning) until a saddle about ten minutes from the end, when we crossed to the other side of the ridge (SE), walked along the shelf there and popped up an easy climb at the last minute to the summit.
I loved not only the extensive views in all directions of ridge upon ridge of steely mountains, many of which were now old friends, but also the impressive dragon spine of the Bluff that led towards Pelion West and Achilles. It was even better than the similar tail of Mt Pearse.

Perkins Bluff from half way up Achilles
Things got even better! On the way back, three buddies and I decided to also ascend Achilles as part of this day’s takings. We climbed up the first major landslide chute on offer after the tarns in the saddle, tried a bit of landscape rearranging / boulder fire, and were, fortunately all still alive, on the top pretty quickly. By now the sun was starting to end its course for the day, and the mountains had that alluring misty essence to them, with others lit by brilliant contrast of dark, well defined shadows set against aurated protuberances. Perrins was at just the right angle to catch these cooperative rays.

Achilles’ Heel from Achilles summit

I didn’t want to try to emulate Cyclops throwing boulders at people on the way down, so cast a vote for descending on the other side, in the bushes. I really enjoyed the fast plunge down, basically making a bee line for our tents at the tarn in a long slippery slide that you’d pay a fortune to do at a commercial fun park.

Layer upon layer of misty mountains as seen from Achilles
To cap off a perfect day, the setting sun burned the dolerite columns of Pelion West, turning them, and their reflections in the tarn, red. That night, as with the previous one, I chose to leave the tent flap open to see the view better. Once again I was too warm to sleep, so watched the nearly full moon on its course above Pelion West and then Achilles. It sank behind the latter around 2 a.m.

Pelion West from my tent at Leonard’s tarn
The next morning, the same buddies (John, David and Brian) and I made our way up Thetis, heading across through scrub to a patch of fagus, and then moving like cats on all fours up the boulder chute until we hit a brief tricky patch that needed more care (I swtched from cat to orangutang), and in no time we were on top of the plateau, where there were tarns in a beautiful grassy valley leading to a very minor saddle on the left, and the summit was just up slightly, a bit further on (still to the left keeping direction) from there.
I was thrilled to have an extra peak, and an Abel at that, under my belt, and enjoyed the view, but I think on this occasion the fun of the climb outclassed the scenery at the top – but then, I have been fearfully spoiled over these summer holidays.

View from Leonards Tarn
After that summit view, it was downhill all the way, physicaly and metaphorically, as we turned our backs on the vista, enjoyed the bouldery descent and slid through the scrub at the end back to Leonard’s tarn, endured the thickety fight down to Frog Flat, and joined the Overlanders on the last trudge in to Pelion Hut, where we set up camp.

One of the views from Thetis

I thought in anticipation that this would be unpleasant and crowded, but I actually had a wonderful time, chatting on the verandah until late into the night with a very interesting bunch of people, having had laughs and good times with my own group up where we cooked dinner first. The design of that hut seems to lend itself to socialising out on the verandah watching the changing light on Oakleigh. I have decided I love it.

Diplarrana moraea
The final morning was perfect. As usual I was up before sunrise, and was treated to a mesmerising pastel Alpenglow behind Barn Bluff and Mt Oakleigh while mist mooched around the trees below.

Dawn on the Pelion Plains
Full of the joy of the dawn, I sped my way along the Arm River track, delighting in the luminated pink and cream richea scoparia along the way, the filigree, diamond studded spider webs and the large number of wallabies and paddymelons that hopped past me as I headed with purpose towards my double shot cappuccinos at Mole Creek. I needed them plus full blast, deafening music and full voiced singing to keep me awake all the way home where I arrived in time for lunch.

Cream richea scoparia on the Arm River track on the way out
Maps can be found in my posts on Achilles:  
http://www.natureloverswalks.com/mt-achilles/     and on Mt Thetis:
http://www.natureloverswalks.com/mt-thetis/  

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Elephant 2014 Jan

Mt Elephant 5 Jan 2014

Head high in cutting grass
I was in a defiant mood today. Not only had the weather forecast cheated me of yesterday’s walk (quite rightly – the wind predictions were grim), but I used the day to line up my intended walks for the summer, only to be told that every single walk I wanted was full. Another summer of doing our own thing zu zweit. Boo.

So, that mood had me announce that we would ignore the unalluring weather forecast for today with its silly bright colours indicating rain all over the state and go climb a mountain anyway – the best antidote to sulking. We hadn’t done Mt Elephant yet, and it was in the east, which had the least dramatic BoM colours for rain, so we downed a hurried breakfast and got out on the road. This time I packed gear for blizzards, just in case.

Summit cairn perched on a rock
Driving along, the weather was magnificent, and we both revelled in the play of light on the mustard-coloured grasses waving in the light breeze. The outline of the Lomond massif to our left as we progressed along the valley was clear and cheering, even if the air was not as crisp and fresh as in winter. It was a beautiful trip.

We tried to eye up our elephant as we approached, but I decided you needed as much imagination for that one as is required to see a Boa who has swallowed a pachyderm rather than a hat at the start of Antoine de St Exupery’s The Little Prince.

Victory salute

We looked for the spot described in my friend’s blog where the Pandani club had started, but were unsure as to its exact location, and we had no coordinates to help, so chose our own start, basically opposite the pancake parlour. Could come in handy at the end. A ridge came to meet the road there, so that suited me. We found a little track that got us maybe two hundred metres – away from the ridge, but what the heck – before we had to start earnestly uphill in a bush bashing spree. We both barked in two separate cough sonatas, our lungs objecting to the pollen we sent flying as we pushed through bushes that offered quite a bit of resistance. And then it got even thicker. No matter, we were on the ridge, so just had to be patient and, logically, if we kept putting one foot in front of the other, we must get there. Next came cutting grass that was over our heads high, and a forest of thick ferns.

 

A friendlier patch of smaller cutting grass
Visibility was not good, either in terms of vistas, or of the ground. I started getting a little unnerved about the fact that I never knew what I was treading on down there. I know what it is to be bitten by a tiger snake, and don’t wish to repeat the experience. This seemed like exactly the kind of country and undergrowth where i had my first encounter and I decided I was verging on tigriphobia (or serpentiphobia) today.
 
Na ja. Soon enough we were on the flat top of the mountain and I navigated us towards the dot on the map that marked the summit at the far end, still quite some way away. With visibility negligible, I was hoping I’d be accurate enough to see the tiny cairn that announced victory. 1 hr 27 mins after leaving our car, we touched it. Olay. The skies were getting decidedly darker and the wind was moaning. I was not looking forward to the return journey, so, in order to give some passing helicopter a chance to float by and offer us a lift – which we would accept – I decided we should eat, as I hate eating in the rain, and we might get hungry later, even though lunch time was still nearly two hours away.
We both felt that we made much better progress on the way down, firstly being further east than our ridge route up, and then swinging to be further west of our ascent. Admittedly, we did end up in some pretty stern dead ends of barricaded branches that brooked no arguments, but we also minimised the tall cutting grass, and we were going downhill. Our time of 1 hr 24 to get back to the car surprised us in that it barely bettered our time up. Going up, we were heading for a point feature, so I was careful about navigation; coming down we were heading for a line feature (road) so I decided to just go with whatever leads were easiest and walk along the road to the car at the end. This tactic brought us out in someone’s backyard about 300 metres west of the pass. The owner came onto his verandah to tell us we were trespassing, but was very nice in the presence of our humble apologies, so all was forgiven …. and now it was time for a pancake lunch. Hoorah.

It rained on the way home, and poured as we entered our driveway.

(Sorry the cyan line is broken. I was new to this toy and accidentally turned it off during the descent).

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Gnomon, Dial and Montgomery 2014 Jan

Mts Gnomon, Dial and Montgomery, 1 Jan 2014.

Path to The Gnomon

What a great way to start the new year: with a walk. Whilst it seemed from listening to the radio that the rest of Australia was on fire, we gathered our coats, rain jackets, Helly longs (top and bottom) and more, and set out for the coastal town of Penguin. Alas, I neglected to bring my waterproof pants and gloves, as this was summer, so I was in beach mode. I froze. Luckily my husband had a spare pseudo-down jacket he could lend me. It was all on tracks, so we could move quite quickly to keep warm (which is part of the reason I had not brought as much cold-weather gear with me).

Gnomon summit rock (which I climbed, of course)

As I walked along the pleasant track listening to the birds, I reflected on the fact that I would much rather be doing this beautiful three-mountain walk in these drizzly conditions than in the summer heat. The greens and browns glistened, and although we couldn’t see the nearby sea, we had wonderful vistas out into the atmospheric wilderness below that hinted of hidden beauty behind the low lying clouds. Mist swirled around the moist, mossy rocks. Stylidiums, goodenias, hakeas and hibbertias, inter alia, coloured our route.

Dial Range Ridge track connecting the mountains

Although none of our mountains was high in any absolute terms, each had a nice little pinch to get to the top, so we had the feeling of well-earned times at the summits, followed in each case by an enjoyable ridge line connecting these mountains of the Dial Range.


Originally, a car shuffle of sorts had been planned (using deposited bikes), but we made such good progress that we’d finished all three mountains before lunch, so after we dined under dripping eucalypts half way down Mt Montgomery, to the accompaniment of several types of bird for dinner music, it was agreed that we should return to the cars via a lower route through lush forest, and just pick up the bikes on the way out, thus turning a shorter straight through walk into a longer and more beautiful loop, dropping down to Keddles Creek, following its ferny banks for a while, and then climbing back up to the car at the Gnomon Car Park.

Dial summit


Lunchspot below Montgomery

We did get to see the sea, but that was from inside the cafe afterwards while we had cake and cappuccino and watched the rain ruining the swimmers’ plans.

(For peak baggers, two of the three peaks were worth points).