GOD’S PUNISHMENT

It’s Maria Island day, which involves being ready by 8.30 a.m., something we haven’t managed at all this trip, for the ferry departure.  Worrying about being ready and my dodgy right knee means little sleep is had because, for some unknown reason, I have decided to have a go at climbing Bishop and Clerk, a distinct outcrop of rock on the northern tip of the island that’s over 620 metres high.

Reading the reviews of others indicated it was probably out of my limits, but I figured if I factored in the push bike, there may be a faint hope.  “The climbing is relentless” one reviewer wrote and, apparently, at the end it gets a lot worse.

So, with much trepidation I headed out on the pushie after the ferry docked, hoping to beat all the walkers who would be trying the climb (turned out there were only six others).

Maria is an enchanting place, free of unnatural predators and thus wildlife flourishes, wombats, echidnas, cape barren geese and native hens, not to mention all the roos, are all flourishing. As you head out, you’re apt to come across some of them.  I mean, where else in Australia can you find a nice furry wombat right beside the dusty trail trying to have a sleep?

It’s open country initially, with vast seascapes across the water to a couple of tiny islands just offshore.  As you swing around to face the distant outcrop the trail gets steep, very steep.  I’m resigned to using a granny gear and zig-zagging and still have to stop a couple of times before the top.  Then there’s a matching steep downhill before another similar energy-sapping ascent with a bench seat for respite about half-way.

After that it’s woodland, though the edge of the cliffs is quite close on the port side still and, on the other side of the trail is the most patterned eucalypt I’ve ever seen in my life. However, as the lady wrote, it’s “relentless” in terms of uphill, though the trail itself is good and easy to follow. 

I manage to get further up, stopping to catch my breath on occasions until, finally, I give up, dismount, and leave my bike and helmet behind.  I figure I’ve only got about 2 kms to go, how hard can it be?

Well, it’s alright and I’m moving freely until the trail has tree roots and a few rocks here and there and it gets just a little arduous.  Then it gets a little more steep, more rocky and more arduous.  That was the good bits because it’s then that you see the landslide rocks.  Nothing in my entire bushwalking life prepared me for this.  It’s a nightmare..

At some stage in the past masses of lumpy rocks have cascaded down the mountain and now, devoid of vegetation, you have to walk up it.  Still, I can see that just 200 metres up the trees start again.

Oh dear, there are only a couple of trees and then the nightmare starts again and the summit looks light years away, it’s so much higher.

Through another couple of trees and then onto a bigger slope, it really is relentless but, then it gets worse!  When you finally get just below the summit, many people don’t go any further because, frankly, it’s just plain scary.  You have to scale a couple of vertical rocks with faint footholds to actually get on the summit.  It is no place for the faint hearted. 

I have a couple of goes before I get enough confidence to throw the top half of my body on the slab and literally drag myself onto it.  How I’m going to get back down I have no idea.

As every reviewer suggests, it’s a spectacular place to be.  There’s an aura here that wraps itself around you and won’t let go.  Whether it’s viewing the lower nearby “Clerk” bit of the formation or gazing back 5-6 kilometers from whence you came, it’s all impressive.

There’s a split rock formation here that involves jumping from one to the other and risking serious injury or death if you make a mistake.  I move around a few but won’t go on the furthest one.  After all, slip and it’s nearly 2,000ft to the ocean.

Eventually, after eating my meagre lunch and emptying my water bottle, other climbers arrive, two men followed by a younger middle-aged German lady, all much more supple than I.  Photos are taken and we get chatting.  Apparently Mount Amos is more scary because it has a slippery granite slope; I remind myself never to go there.

Because one of the gents is comfortable wandering around the far rock I eventually give it a go.  It’s not as scary as I thought but I can understand why all three women (another two have just arrived) point blank won’t go there.

Then, if you thought coming up was bad, wait till you have to descend!  A change of underwear would be a requirement for some.  Going over the edge onto three uncertain steps has everyone worried and I’m glad I remembered my “go down backwards” policy because it makes it a lot more doable, but still scary.

My knees are in “complain” mode all the way back down the rocks.  “Will it ever end” keeps crossing my mind but, of course, it eventually does and the roughish part of the bushwalk commences.  A tree root here, a rock there, but at least I’m going down and the bike lies in wait somewhere further on.  That “somewhere further on” seems twice as far as when I was ascending, and my relief is palpable when the bright green helmet strapped to the frame comes into view.  Now it’s all downhill and much faster and easier.

When, on the top, the German lady and I had compared bike notes and she said she loved riding the mountains in Germany.  Imagine my surprise when I passed her walking.  She’d left her bike about two kilometres before mine and had hardly climbed anything.

I’d originally hoped to make the 2.30 ferry and rocked up with nearly half an hour to spare.  It had taken me around 5 hours to do something I’ll never do again or recommend to anyone.

Still, having done it, you get boasting rights (and a lot of pain for a few days afterwards!).

TWISTED, BUT NOT BITTER - Cradle Mountain NP trails and photography

Words and pics by Ian Smith

2.30, it’s 2.30, as in a.m.  Doubts arise as to the sanity of doing anything at this time of the day; sorry, night, but I’m driven.  Once before I’d made the sunrise at Dove Lake, back in the days when you could still drive your motorhome to the water’s edge.  These days it’s so popular they have an automated gate that locks when the carpark is full and signs forbidding everything save ordinary cars, but right now I’m a long way from there. 

First I have to get ready.  Through bleary eyes I start to make my walking breakfast, the one I’ll eat on the trail, as distinct from the cereal I’m eating now.  My head wants to be on a pillow but the driving factor of the possibility of seeing stars over Dove Lake is irrepressible.  I’d been thinking about it for months.

It’s raining outside, another reason I shouldn’t be going.  The weather forecast has consistently said, “slightly cloudy”, maybe Cradle Mountain will be different.

I’ve already packed my camera gear when I finish with eating I get appropriately dressed, leave some food for the surprised animals and I’m on my way except, 8 kms down the road, the thought that my wallet isn’t on board registers and I turn back.  If it was only for my licence I wouldn’t have bothered, but I know they’ll be looking for my national parks pass and I’ll be starving later thus money will be required.

Refocused I recommence my journey and the one thing I constantly worried about takes about 20 minutes to eventuate – potoroos!  Whatever road you travel on up here you’ll see many that have successfully achieved their suicide mission.

They’re everywhere, it’s like driving through a never ending chicane.  You can’t do more than 70 with any measure of safety so it adds over half an hour to the trip.

   I’ve taken the slightly longer route in error as well, meaning there’s more corners and more possibilities of hitting animals.  With every passing kilometre the slip-slap of the wipers is incessant, making me wonder about the wisdom of the venture even more.

There’s nothing on the road except animals and it keeps you alert and takes my mind off the improbability that I’ll be successful.  The final road in is Belvoir Road and, about 20 kms shy of the national park, the rain finally stops.  At least I’ll be able to get a shot perhaps I’m thinking.  Then, through a narrow gap in the clouds, a crescent moon briefly puts in an appearance.  A shining light of hope perhaps?

Then, as I turn onto the final entry and head down the last 8 kms, there’s no more rain and occasional breaks in the sky; by the time I reach the shore of Dove Lake, it’s like a miracle has occurred; there’s not a cloud in the sky.

Just how shy of dawn it was I had no real idea, I just rushed to get my camera gear ready, fumbling here and there in an effort to get everything together, making sure I had some food and drink.

At this time of day, in this kind of place, it’s eerie.  Your ears are straining for sounds that never come, your eyes seeking somewhere to place your feet safely on the ground, your olfactory senses picking up some scent or other from the native bush; everything is heightened.  It’s not until I reach the shore when the soft sound of tiny ripples stirs my eardrums that I can relax a little.

I’d hoped for millpond conditions so I could get the stars reflecting in the surface but there’s a surreal mist clinging to the surface of the lake, its ephemeral nature will become apparent when the sun bursts through.  Meanwhile, I’m stretching out my tripod, getting the settings right on my camera (not as easy as it sounds) and praying conditions stay the same.  

                                                                 

The shots start clicking off, 30 second exposures of the Magellenic Clouds hovering over Cradle Mountain and then the artistic side of my brain starts running amok.  “Where can you get a better angle?” it keeps harping; so I find myself moving hither and thither around the northern end of the lake, at times stepping in the muddy foreshore.  I play the light of my head torch onto the foreground to try and add some depth, maybe pick out the fog or highlight some reeds.  It’s like working to a deadline governed by the sun.

Mercifully I’ve arrived early enough so that I can make some mistakes but hopefully ensure that there’s some good shots in amongst them.  Then I get a fetish to go and shoot the famous boatshed; it’s a sort of “have to do it while you’re here” thing but halfway there realize it’s taking up valuable time and it gets overridden so I do a U-turn and I start my big hike, initially on the eastern side of Dove Lake until I reach the Y intersection and turn left onto the Lake Rodway Track, starting the climb to Mount Hanson.

      

First light is appearing in the sky as the stars are banished for another day and there’s the tiniest wisp of cirrus forming up over Cradle.  I reach the point where Lorraine and I had lunch only a few days earlier and have to make a decision; continue on Rodway or drop onto the category 4 Lake Hanson Trail.  Though I know the former will get me to Twisted Lakes sooner, I’m torn by the fact that maybe there’ll be a photo opportunity at Lake Hanson and also knowing there are chain sections on Mount Hanson so I head down and soon after discover why it’s rated a 4.  It’s rugged and bum slides have to be undertaken here and there just to get down.  It’s certainly not a place for the average stroller.

      

Constantly on the lookout for angles and interesting bits of nature, it’s not very fruitful until I come to a part of the trail that is tree roots and nothing else for about 40 metres before reaching a couple of ponds just above the lake itself.  Here, the still waters and skeletons of trees long since dead lend an artistic atmosphere to the journey and I add some time to get a dozen snaps. 

After this it’s still rugged but uphill, testing your strength and skill at times as you wonder just when it’s all going to end.  It’s supposed to be an hour loop but I’m sure I’ve taken than already.

Then the top of Little Horn peeps up on the horizon, maybe I’m getting close I think.  Within another 20 metres the whole purpose of the excursion becomes apparent.  The vista before me is simply breathtaking.  Twisted Lakes is but a mirror, everything I’d hoped and planned for has come to fruition.

           

When you come upon something as good as this, it’s overwhelming.  The sheer majesty of the panorama engulfs you, its power makes you feel so humble in its presence, there’s a distinct aura of “something else”, but it’s indefinable.  It’s all my grey matter can do to remind me that I’m here to actually take photos.  You just don’t want to stop looking for fear that it will all go away and you’ll be denied any more pleasure; but it stays as I set up the tripod.  It’s not often I put myself in the picture, but here I feel it’s a must.  Then I can look at it and remember just where I sat and how good it was.

There are many angles to be had here.  Faint trails indicate where other photographers have been, little flattened sections indicative of footfalls.  It takes me around 15 minutes to get what I came for and then I sit down and enjoy breakfast, although “enjoy” seems like a totally inadequate verb in this case, there is a higher plane involved here, one you get to experience so few times in life.

The cloud has started to form more seriously now, as predicted, and it adds a little to the experience.  Changing lens and shifting position constantly I can but hope I’ve got it covered and, even as I’m moving around, the first gentle ripples of the day’s breezes disturb the surface.  Had I been here any later I would have missed it.  You like to think it’s good fortune but reflect on that fact that you’ve planned it for a week, constantly following the weather patterns, in the hope that you’ll get it right and leaving early enough to avoid all the problems that occur later.

The time has come to move on.  From here I pick up the Rodway Track again and come across a hut.  About 50 metres in front of the hut is yet another reflective pond so I do a diversion into there before heading out again and soon I turn off onto the Face Track.

 

I anticipate this will be a straight traverse across beneath the Little Horn and then down to Lake Wilks.  Oh dear, did I get that wrong.  It climbs and then climbs some more.  My tired legs are in fear that I’ll have to scale the rock band at the base of the mountains and with good reason.  Though I check my map twice there’s no way I could have taken a wrong turn.  The massive buttress is before me and there’s a small cleft where the trail goes.  My whole body now is rebelling but I have to go there, hand over hand hauling myself up the rock face until, finally, the track turns to the right and levels out.

I stumble gratefully along until the intersection with the Lake Wilks Track is reached.  From here it’s downhill all the way, only it’s another grade 4 route so I anticipate more suffering and am not disappointed.  It’s rugged, rough and, at times, dangerous.  I’m grateful I’m an experienced bushwalker and can negotiate such ways but I’ve exerted more energy than I anticipated and I pause here and there for a drink and to recuperate.
                                 

Then comes the chain section, about 100 metres of it, in order to negotiate what must have been a pretty scary section before they put it in.  As I start the serious descent I can hear voices, the first human sounds since yesterday.  I’m about ¾ of the way down the chain when we meet and greet each other.  They’re from England and have done extensive walking over there.  They marvel at how you can come to a place like this and have it almost to yourself, cross referencing it with the Lakes District where there are crowds wherever you go.

  

We continue our separate ways and Lake Wilks seems to take forever to arrive as the track goes one way and then another.  Eventually I reach it and am surprised at the photo opportunity it offers.  I guess the reason it hasn’t been covered more extensively by photographers is that it’s always on the way to somewhere else, not a destination in itself.  I probe into a couple of spots and then move on.  A pair of tattooed hikers go past as I’m shooting the small stream that flows from the lake.  No greetings are exchanged as they seem to be on a mission so I pack up and move further down towards Dove Lake.
                   

It seems an eternity before I finally reach the most popular of tracks and slump down and have a drink at the first available opportunity.  The car is still an hour away but at least I’m on grade 2 now and can move along at a reasonable pace and there will be conversations to be had.

As I come across “normal” tourists I’m told “It’s not far to go now”.  I must look bushwhacked to them and, since I have boasting rights, I explain I’ve been walking for six hours and not just around the lake as they might be expecting.  When I point out where I’ve been, some sympathy is clearly discernible.

The small climbs up easy steps take on a new dimension.  I want a chopper to come over and airlift me out or to be chaired out on a litter.  Each passing step comes at a cost and my 70 years on the planet are making it known.   Each rest point is utilized as I slowly make my way back to the car.  Someone else who’s done the same walk recorded over 10,000 steps and they ultimately come at a price but, when the carpark is finally reached, I’m so glad I came today and did what I did.  Somewhere deep inside a contentment reigns supreme.

Call Me Mr. Lucky

MOUNT MURCHISON – CALL ME MR. LUCKY (AGAIN)

It rises before you, this brooding outcrop of rock, towering upwards, often beyond the clouds, acting like a temptress from Greek mythology, luring you to come within its grasp.  Every time I laid my gaze upon it the temptation grew, every time the drifting clouds taunted me, offering only glimpses of the prize.  Where there’s a mountain, there’s a way up it, though not all come back alive, as I recently had reaffirmed when I read a book by Australia’s premier mountain climber, the first to ascend all peaks over 8,000 metres.  Though Mount Murchison could hardly begin to be classified among the greats but, all mountains, no matter what their size, carry risks when man seeks to overcome them and, when I did specific research on Murchison, many were the warnings.

However, also in that research were clusters of photographs with much appeal.  It’s a mountain of many facets and I particularly liked the tarns stuck in the middle of a caldera shape.  Indeed, some photographer had gone the extra yard and trekked down to them and came back with a couple of stunners.  This time I determined, one way or the other, I was going up that hill.

Last time through we’d been in the motorhome and found a delightful spot beside Lake Rosebery; only spoiled by a couple of young mums and their screaming kids who had car stereo going full blast, totally destroying the peace and tranquility you’d normally expect in such a place.  Still, when they left we had the place all to ourselves and even had a dip in the refreshing waters while Murchison loomed in the background.  It was one of those “into nature” places that drift across the mind whenever it might seek calm and delightful memories though, when I went back and had a look at the photos, the one that made me laugh was Lorraine walking around in my clearly oversize dressing down the following morning beside the remnants of a barbecue fire surrounded by a ring of rocks.  There in the almost pristine wilderness it seemed, somehow, somewhat incongruous.

This time we’d researched the weather and, with Lorraine wanting to head off to Stanley in favourable conditions, Murchison was postponed for another day.

Lorraine woke me in the morning which was just as well because I’d had trouble sleeping and had no idea what time it was.  Suffice it to say, with some help in food prep from Lorraine, I was under way at 7 a.m., endorphins racing madly around my body.  Somehow I couldn’t settle driving and the perfect weather spurred me onwards.  Perhaps, at times, the speed limit was exceeded, but I was on a mission, a mission that became frustrating as I was held up at three successive roadworks.  They obviously didn’t have their traffic lights in synch and I was stopped for a few minutes at each.

Eventually freed from the diggings I was pushing onwards when I came to MacIntosh Bridge over Lake Rosebery.  Here, crepuscular rays were bursting through the rising fog off the lake.  My photographer’s instinct leapt to the fore and I screeched (okay, slowed down quickly) on the southern side of the bridge and started clicking.  In my excitement I really didn’t take a lot of time working out the angles and I’d only been there for a couple of minutes when a car pulled up on the northern side of the bridge.

Working my way across the arch I turned around and saw perfect reflections on the opposite side of the span emanating from a gorge I wished I’d had time to explore.  Across the other side I walked down to the man who had a contraption in his hands.  All the way there I’d heard this strange noise and could only guess that it was the fizzing off the power lines laden with dew.  In fact, it was a drone and we were both photographing the same thing, but from entirely different angles.

After a brief discussion we exchanged emails and I made way back to the car; the mountain awaited.

The instructions I had were concise and in another 10 minutes I was out of the car and packing for the hike, the excitement fuelled by uncertainty of whether I would actually make it or not.  It was about here that I realized I’d left my drink bottles behind in the fridge.  Bad mistake.

A book for signing is just ten metres into the myrtle forest and I had no idea of the date as I filled in my details and had to return to the road to get the registration figures.  The forest continues for about the first 20% of the walk.  You begin to wonder if there’s any end to it as you gain height continually.  Still, there’s plenty of shade though no breeze and my body starts to warm up as I twist around the roots.

It’s pretty, but I’m glad when I finally break free and can get some idea of how I’m going and it’s obvious that I’ve still got a long way to go.  Upwards, ever upwards, until around 1 hour into the hike I call a halt and bring out my thermos.  I’m so grateful to have a cuppa and some biscuits, putting some energy back in.

I take time to look around and, even this early in, the place is impressive.  Across from a tarn way below the strata is captivating.  It’s wavy immediately above the water but then, far to the right, it rises sheer to the summit of another peak, forced in ancient geological times by thrust of unimaginable power.  Around here the trail diverts to the right but the climb is relentless, a word I repeat often on the ascent.  At times I’m breathless and a mite dizzy and even shocked when some small mammal scoots from a hole and races between my legs….at least, I think it was, then again, it might have been a bird, but the hole was certainly real.

The mountain giveth, the mountain taketh away.  This thought runs through my head as I gaze upwards at the tantalizing heights yet also reflect on my suffering body.  Then, something happens to boost my spirits.  Concerned at the lack of fluids I had been conserving them until I reached the summit.  I’d discovered a lost flask from a previous expedition with some left in it but I didn’t want to drink that if it could be avoided but, now, right in front of me, the unmistakeable gurgle of flowing water.  My eyes lit up and the tiny watercourse flickered in the shadow of some ground hugging vegetation.  There was one spot where I could easily fill a bottle and so I did, downing one filling then packing the next as a reserve.

With renewed energy I attacked the ascent and then came to a rope.  I had no idea how far up it went but summoned up the courage to attempt it and hauled my weight towards the next level.  Luckily, it was only about 15 metres before you could walk relatively safely again.  Here you could see how you might attain the summit and you were approaching the last quarter.

Here and there a wind would buffet you, depending on the lay of the mountain.  I had removed my shirt some time before as it became saturated with sweat and I was grateful for any movement of air.

Somewhere after the 2 hour mark I crested the apex of a ridge and it is here, without doubt, that Murchison captures your soul, having taking the exertions of your body.  I’m in awe of the majesty of the place.  Were this in Greece 2,500 years ago it would surely have been the place of the gods.  Indeed, on one horizon lays the great mountain range of Tasmania, with peaks like the Acropolis, Mount Geryon (a fearsome giant) and Lake Elysia (struck by lightning).  Others have been similarly inspired apparently.

Murchison is a place of many peaks though.  Which one is the highest I know not as the trail leads me on a frighteningly narrow path with a precipitous drop to a tarn far below.  The goal is near however, and there’s no turning back from this point.  It’s only a short section thankfully, maybe 15 metres or so, but I’m so glad to be on the other side.  100 metres further on and the views are spectacular; your eyes struggling to know where to look first, the sun bouncing off the ripples in the tarns below deflects your vision to the horizon.  I’ve never seen the Du Cane Range like this, all lumps and bumps across the southern sky.

Then there’s the trig station, no chance of me ever going there.  It sits astride a razorback ridge where foliage declines to exist, except maybe for a hardy plant or two stuck in a crevice.  You could spend a whole day here just peak bagging but I’m sated in the knowledge I’ve reached some point up here and will leave the ragged bits to the serious climbers.

It’s a “wow” moment and I stop, unpack and take my time to savour it for at least a few minutes, actually, close to 20 because I can’t stop soaking up the magnificence and the day is made to order.  The only thing I’d change is the wind ruffling the tarns and occasionally ripping across the ridge, though I’ve set up base just on the lee side.

It’s almost reluctantly that I start back, snapping here and there and shooting some small grasshoppers which seem to favour the heights.  Somehow I miss the scary bit on the return and drop off the ledge into descent mode.  I know it will be easier and the light has actually improved; the thin haze on the horizon has cleared and it’s an even more perfect day. 

Upon reaching the little streamlet I refill my bottle yet again and continue on, taking little rests here and there and continually eyeing off the myrtle forest because I know that, once there, I can escape the sun and it won’t be far to Kia.  Somehow though, it seems to take forever, though it’s probably around an hour since the bottle refill when the vegetation rises above my head and adrenalin starts to course around my body, even more so when I hear a vehicle seemingly not that far away.

I up the pace but then my thighs start letting me know that it’s not a good idea but I can’t slow down as the sound of a truck rolling by below tempts me onward.  When I eventually get to the log book I’m more than happy and fill in the details of my walk, noting the 4 cups of tea, 3 bottles of water, 1 wrap and 2 biscuits that I consumed and the time, I roughly guess, of 5 ¾ hours during which I snapped off 300 photos.

I sit down on the final step, looking at the car across the road, but not wishing to go there as I’m hot and it’s fully exposed to the sun.  Thus I watch the cars go by for a quarter of an hour and wave gently at them while I cool down.  When I finally stand up again I find it hard to believe I have no pain, no aches, just a feeling of having done something worthwhile and I start the car with a feeling of contentment running through my veins and head off to Tullah, a town where once many were employed but, these days, just a couple of hundred souls live here and you can’t help but feel that tourism is going to be its main future.

I rock on down to the caravan park café for some afternoon tea.  The spacious restaurant is deserted apart from staff and a couple sitting outside.  I move out to the table beside them and it’s so eerie.  They’re not speaking, at all.  The silence is weird; it’s like they’re props in a movie and have been told to sit and say nothing.  I’m fairly keen for some conversation but it just doesn’t happen so I’m left eyeing the delightful Lake Rosebery yet again though from a different point this time.  The couple leave and I reminisce on the day’s events, thinking how lucky I was to arrive at Lake Rosebery when the fog was lifting, have made-to-order weather on the mountain, discover running water just when I needed it and being able to use someone else’s car to get here – cheers!