Tag: Tasmania

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Schnells Ridge 2013 Aug

Schnells Ridge  24 Aug 2013

Ever since the moment I first saw images of Schnells Ridge, over a year ago, going there and camping on top have been high on my wish list. The forecast for last weekend was perfect. It had been snowing all week, but the weekend’s prediction was for intermittent sunshine mingled with more snow. Perfect. I imagined my little tent up high, surrounded by white ridges, shining tarns below, and in the distance, the blue waters of Lake Pedder. The only thing wrong was that I would probably have to take up my compact rather than my SLR camera, as the weight of spare winter clothing, tent, 2 mats, sleeping bag, food, fuel, stove and more might break this camel’s back. If the weather was absolutely perfect when we arrived, then I’d carry the good camera around my neck, but there was just no room inside my pack for it if there was even a hint of rain or snow.
Unfortunately, the noble forecasters had changed their tune without consulting me. As we set out, I heard the forecast was now for rain. Both days. Oh well. We’d see when we got there. Out we set from Launceston for the big drive south.
The forecast was unfortunately accurate. The big camera stayed in the car. Off we set into the clouds, drizzle threatening to break into fully-fledged rain at any second. We were about to climb, so I resisted wearing my anorak.

The track was a pathway of water, across the windswept moor, and a group of us went walking, sliding, paddling, and a group of us went walking, up to the Schnells Ridge door. Before we reached that “portal” (a high point on the track where a sub-ridge emanating from Schnell’s main ridge connects with the Judd Lake track), we had to cross the Anne River. Luckily there is now a suspension bridge there. The water gurgled along about five centimetres below the steel hatching. With more rain and snowmelt, I wondered what the level would be like tomorrow, and how strong the water that should be covering the bridge by then would be. I practised for the worst-case scenario at the end of the bridge by climbing the railing so that my feet were on the first handrail, my hands on the second. It worked well. My technique was needed anyway, as the river had burst its banks, and we had quite deep water to wade through on the other side. By climbing up onto the handrails I was able to ward off the evil moment of submersion for a few seconds longer.

We were obviously quite precious about our feet on the way out, as the split for the car to end-of-path was nearly twenty minutes longer than the split for the same section on the way back, when we were arguably tired. Before we left the path, we grabbed a quick bite, as the ground on the path was relatively dry, and it was not raining just then. It was far too early for lunch, but we had driven from Launceston, so were on a special kind of adapted time-zone arrangement. I had eaten breakfast at 5 a.m., so that justified an early meal.
Reports I had read about the ridge leading onto the main ridge always made it sound thick and difficult. I found it very easy going, with hardly any resistance from vegetation (a bit of mud slipping every now and then). As it was now raining properly, I had my anorak on, so tried not to move at a pace that would have me sweating. No problems. I was lucky: while waiting a bit for the others so we could regroup before disappearing altogether into the thick grey gloom, a brief moment of vision flashed into the sky. I quickly grabbed the opportunity to shoot the monochrome scene on my compact. Mt Solitary disappeared as quickly as it had come into view. The others had missed it, as their eyes were turned forwards and upwards. On into the now darker mist and up into the area above the snowline. Loose snow. We sank into it, thigh deep, goose stepping our way forward to the top.
There were now two of us at the front, and we waited for the others behind another rock, sheltering from the now very strong wind. We had reached the top of the ridge. Off we set to touch the high point, and then continue our way along the ridge to eventually circle around and drop down again in about two kilometres’ time.

We could barely see each other through the thick mist; we were also very wet by this stage, and the wind was whacking into us, driving the snow into our faces. One of our party had already been dropping back; now he started stumbling a bit. We hid behind the next rock to discuss what we should do. It was way too early to set up camp (it was only about 2 p.m. at this stage). We didn’t think this struggling member could hack another two kms of goose stepping through soft snow with wind mercilessly attacking him. Setting up camp at the other end had decidedly lost all appeal (whilst waiting, I had run the video through my head of struggling with the tent pole while the wind tried to blow my tent straight down to Judd below; stripping off my wet clothes in that restricted space; dealing with the high levels of moisture at ground level, and more. Not one scenario sniffed of pleasure). Camping at Judd Lake was not an option – pitching in the middle of a mud swamp. We all agreed to retrace our steps and descend.
It was a great training exercise, carrying all the gear for a full winter sleepout up that incline. The whole exercise took five and a half hours’ walking, with nearly seven hours of having our heavy packs on our backs (it was just too wet to put them down apart from the brief lunch break and an even briefer afternoon tea. The other non-walking time was spent in photography and waiting for the others. There was no scenery to admire, and it was too cold to be stationary, resting.)
We drove back to Launie, with enough time left for hot showers before bed.
So, now I have seen Schnells ridge, but have yet to see the view. Next time, hopefully.
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Murchison 2013 Jun

Mt Murchison   22-23 June, 2013

The weather forecast had a huge and wonderful high, all weekend. What should we do with this treasure? We had touched the summit of Mt Murchison, but not seen the view. Mt Farrell, when we climbed it, had also been clothed in a thick grey mantel. This would be the weekend to see the view. Off we set.
The trip there was so beautiful, we almost didn’t care if we never got to see a view. Every shrub – every blade of grass – was coated in a sparkling white rime. It was glorious.  We drove through fairyland to get to our mountain.
For the early part of the climb, one is in protective rainforest, but from the moment we emerged from the rainforest’s aegis, the rocks were covered in ice crystals, as below.

My husband had planned on drinking from creeks, and hadn’t brought any water. He was disappointed (in the liquid refreshments available, if not in the scenery). Every single water source, running or not so, was frozen solid.

Beautiful in an austere kind of way, but not much good for drinking

The going was pretty tricky, and became more so the higher we got. Below us, cotton-ball cloud filled the valley, shining glary white. As we neared the rather exposed shelf that my husband had crossed happily in the mist, I decided in slippery ice it would be too tricky, so I left him in a spot with a magical view, and dealt with the final section of ice solo.

Here is a photo of him waiting patiently taken with a zoom from the summit. It seemed from the top as if I could see forever. I photographed in all directions, but didn’t linger: i could see my husband, safe in the distance, but he might be getting cold. Time to go back and join him.
 Even halfway down, the views were inspiring.

And below are two pictures of Murchison taken the next morning. This is one glorious hulk of a mountain!!

 

We then went to Mt Reed that afternoon, and Mt Farrell the next morning, so they were all part of this trip, but I like to allocate each mountain its own space,  so I will give the other pets their own separate post.
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Farrell 2013 Jun

Mt Farrell   23 June 2013

The high forecast by the Bureau of Meteorology stayed high. Hoorah. This was our second time climbing Mt Farrell, but would be the first with a view. I was very curious to see what we’d missed on the first time. What glorious weather, and what we saw was wonderful.

Cortinarius rotundisporus

Unidentified fungi

There is a track up Mt Farrell. I am revisiting this post after many years and realise I’ve given you no details. I hope the pictures are enough to please.

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Read 2013 Jun

Mt Read   22 June 2013
As said in the Murchison entry, these two mountains were done in the same weekend, but I decided to file them separately.
We climbed Murchison on the Saturday morning, and wanted to go up Read after lunch that afternoon, saving Farrell for the early golden light of the following day.
I had the map. We set out. It was not a case of veni, vidi, vici, alas. We were met with the “locked gates of Tasmania” phenomenon, and spent the next two and a half hours – longer than the ascent + descent of Murchison – trying to gain some kind of near starting point. Eventually, with light fading all too quickly, we dumped the car in the township of Rosebery, and set out. There’s a road all the way, so one is not going to get lost in the dark, and it was a glorious, albeit bitterly cold, evening.
Here is what we found: wonderful in short.

 Moonrise behind Murchison across the valley

 

Later, and looking towards the west
 
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Mt Field NP 2013

Mt Field West  Attempt  15-16 June, 2013

Unfortunately, at Lake Dobson, the precipitation took the form of rain. As we climbed, brushing against soaked bushes and slopping through pools and risen rivulets, our lower halves became wet through. The exertions of climbing also meant that our top halves were damp with sweat from the inside. By the time we reached Newdigate Hut, the rain had changed to the promised snow, which is warmer than rain, but we were already freezing from being wet. We ate a hasty morning tea, eager to keep moving.


At the top of Newdigate Pass, we realised that we had up until this point been sheltered from the main brunt of the wind. Now it slapped us in the face, driving piercing shards of sago snow into our exposed facial skin. I zipped my anorak to the top, which is between my mouth and nose. The hood I dropped forward to half cover my eyes. I just had a tiny window to peep out of so I could locate the next pole or cairn, but that was enough for the gale to find and lance me. Soon enough, however, the glorious sight of a triangle of metal signifying the emergency shelter on K-col took form through the thick mist. Shelter at last. We opened the door with relief. I stopped singing my adaptation of Lawson’s The Team:
A snipe of snow on a bouldery ’road’
And the team goes creeping on. 
Inch by inch with the weary load; 
And by the power of the blizzard’s goad

The distant goal is won.

 

                                                It was lunchtime. The day was still young – but we had very little hope of being able to continue and summit our mountain. Perhaps tomorrow things would improve. But should we give up yet? Well, not quite yet, so we ate lunch in our sopping gear, dancing on the spot at frequent intervals to try to prevent gelidity. The sound of the wind’s fury did not abate, and nano-peeps out the door indicated that snow was still falling. We all had tents, but no one was willing to brave the weather and pitch.  Eventually at some point after lunch we admitted defeat and changed into our set of dry clothes. I was most reluctant to do this, despite being desperately cold, as once in that gear, I wouldn’t be able to go outside, and I knew I’d need the toilet at some point, but my core temperature was dropping rapidly, so I shed the wet layers and climbed most prematurely (it was only a bit after 2) into my sleeping bag as advised by the others. It seemed shocking to do this so early, but I saw no other hope of warming up. I was wearing two merino icebreakers, an Arcteryx coat and a down jacket (the last two with hoods), a beanie, gloves, Helly longs, overpants and woollen socks, all dry, but was still cold, so I obediently climbed in. A-M sat on my feet to try to warm them for me. Soon we had a row of four all trying to warm the one in front like penguins in a blizard. It began to get mildly cosy.


We spent the rest of the afternoon joking, laughing, telling silly tales, and listening to B who read us Italian Fairytales that I’d brought up the mountain for just this purpose. We put off dinner, as once it got dark it would be harder to amuse ourselves. We were all also reluctant to get out of our bags to cook. I was not the only one dreading the idea of needing the toilet – one of many sources of ribald humour during the afternoon (wit of jokes no doubt enhanced by A-M’s spiced rum). I deliberately drank nothing with dinner to reduce trips outside. Somehow we managed to joke around until almost 9 pm, after which we made an attempt at official sleep. Two climbed into the tiny mezzanine floor; the other three set up bed on the chairs below.


All night those of us who were awake (= all of us) could hear the wind raging against the frame of our shelter. Snow banked up against the door. We would not be summitting this trip. After breakfast, we had do decide what, if any, dry gear we would save for an emergency. Most of us donned our wet garments. My socks were sodden but I didn’t even have the resolve or whatever it took to wring them out, and I didn’t want to use my dry ones. What was the point? My shoes were saturated. My overpants were damp and cold, but on they went, over the dry overpants and Helly longs I was already wearing. For my top half, I kept on all the clothes from the night as above, but exchanged a fleece for the down jacket so that I had an extra dry upper layer left (as well as the usual full thermal body cover, still dry in my pack). My gloves had been knocked inadvertently onto the floor during the night. They were frozen so solidly I couldn’t change the shape to force my fingers in. I elected to throw caution to the wind and use my last pair of dry gloves that would, indeed, get wet within 30 seconds of being out there, but I just couldn’t face another wet layer. The icy ones were now so hateful to me I didn’t even want to carry them for another day. My anorak was also a frozen, metallic sheet of armour, but I had so many layers on top (6 already before I donned it) that the ice from that garment would take a while to reach me. Off we set into the mist and driving gale. I plodded like an automaton over the icy, treacherous rocks – one foot in front of the other and you’ll get there – and sang in my mind my new adaptation to the second verse of Lawson’s poem:

With eyes half-shut to powdery mist,
And necks to the ground bent low, 
The walkers are walking as walkers must; 
And due to the strength of the icy blast, 
The moving pace is slow.

Although we were plodding with heads to the ground to try to avoid ice attack, there was still opportunity to notice how wonderful the rocks and plants were with their mantel of snow. It was beautiful, and we were thrilled to be out in it, – despite the discomfort – and exhilarated to be part of nature’s unattenuated wildness.

We were slow, yes, but we got there, and had a chocolate break at Newdigate Hut. My bodily system had closed down in the extreme cold, so eating chocolate (or drinking icy water?) brought on violent stomach cramps for the next uncomfortable hour to the next emergency shelter. The final part was a breeze. Now I’m home I keep finding it hard to believe that I can just go out the door without being assaulted by ice.