Differences

This shows you the differences between two versions of the page.

--- 195806 [2016/04/08 09:07] – [Who'd Be a Baulker (Part IV)] kennettj
+++ 195806 [2016/04/08 11:53] – [In Tasmania's South West (Part 3)] kennettj
@@ Line 130: / Line 130: @@
 Such was the scene witnessed by a circling eagle the morning that Joan, Arthur, Henry and I set out from Lake Pedder to trek to Mt. Anne. Fortunately, we were too much alive to be of anything but passing interest to circling eagles - the weather, so frustrating during our stay at Pedder, had come good with a vengeance; the rugged grandeur of that sunlit landscape had filled us brimfull of admiration; and with the adventure of Mt. Anne ahead of us, we felt an exciting tingle of anticipation well up within us.
-A clump <If small trees, practically the only shelter on the plain, afforded us a shady lunch spot where we could let our restless spirits wander over the sharp peaks and dips of the Arthur Range. For the moment it was enough to admire from afar, but inwardly I knew the Arthurs would bring me back to Tassie some other day. Replenished, we pushed on around the end of Solitary where we began to really appreciate the full magnificence of the Annes for the first time. ("A mighty hunk of masonry" as Arthur would exclaim.) The eye would inevitably be drawn to the peak of Anne itself, truly a regal queen of all she surveyed. The whole of that long afternoon we crossed the button grass plains, heading directly for the foot of the Mt. Eliza climbing ridge. The Huon River, by legend a fearsome obstacle at times, was this day no more than a harmless brook. Fortunately, with a full quota of photographers, there were plenty of diversions to temper the bash and it was always amusing to study the ridiculous postures adopted by the wild flower experts, Henry and Arthur, to say nothing of the endless discussions on the higher technicalities of close-up photography.. Our goal was now well in sight but what's this? Surprise of surprises! Without warning we had suddenly stumbled on the most delightful little creek running fair slap-bang through the middle of those soggy plains. The sparkling clear water ran swiftly over a bed of clean smooth stones, so reminiscent of our own Blue Mountains. After consulting the map I realised that it was the lower reaches of Condeminion Ck., whose source lies high ui on the slopes of Mt. Anne - no wonder it was the best water in Tasmania! We made a pleasant camp amidst a clump of trees higher up the creek, just where it runs past the foot of the climbing ridge. It was mighty good to relax through the long SUMMBI; twilight and put a mug of soup, a giant plate of "Henry's Meal" (see Henry for the secret formula) and a couple of syrup dumplings in the place where they ought to go. As we lingered over coffee
-(or was it rum cocoa) and discussed plans for Anne, dark, clouds' came sweeping up from the south - in ten minutes a cloudless sky
-had been transformed into a distinctly ominous one. But that's so typical of the South-West; changes in the weather for better
-or worse can occur with such frightening speed. ' However, the weather did not seem to matter then, not when bodies as tired as ours were being called to that haven of tents and sleeping bags we had come to appreciate so much
-But in the morning it was a different story - the low and threatening cloud ceiling took the edge off our enthusiasm. The mountains which had surrounded us in alltheir glory the previous day had suddenly ceased to exist. Eliza's climbing ridge dis-
-appeared into a forbidding sea of grey less than half-way up its length - the conditions were ngt exactly promising for an exposed
-high camp but our hopes woulf be dashed, Our plan was to carry two days food up to a spot just underneath the top of
-Mt. Eliza, a recognised campsite from which the Mt. Anne plateau
-can be comfortably explored. So, stringing up the excess food and gear from a tree, we set off Up the ridge and reached our objective after a steady two hour climb. Several members of the Launcestqn Walking Club were already encamped, straining at the leash for an attempt on Anne at the first break in the weather. As the first bout of icy rain stung our faces we carved two tent sites out of the small dead timber which covers the ridge at this point. might mention the necessity of placing a stout log across the  bottom end of the tent to prevent sleeping bodies from sliding out of cover down the 30g slope. A biting, southerly provided a hint of what conditions could be like in prolonged bad weather. Later in the afternoon the swirling all-around-east gave some sign of breaking and a two-club party hurried to the tops, but it was all so much wishful thinking; once or twice the murk thinned out to give us tantalising glimpses of great boulder-Rtrewn glopes and
-plunging ridges; there was nothing for it but to return to camp with fingers crossed for the day to come.
+A clump of small trees, practically the only shelter on the plain, afforded us a shady lunch spot where we could let our restless spirits wander over the sharp peaks and dips of the Arthur Range. For the moment it was enough to admire from afar, but inwardly I knew the Arthurs would bring me back to Tassie some other day. Replenished, we pushed on around the end of Solitary where we began to really appreciate the full magnificence of the Annes for the first time. ("A mighty hunk of masonry" as Arthur would exclaim.) The eye would inevitably be drawn to the peak of Anne itself, truly a regal queen of all she surveyed. The whole of that long afternoon we crossed the button grass plains, heading directly for the foot of the Mt. Eliza climbing ridge. The Huon River, by legend a fearsome obstacle at times, was this day no more than a harmless brook. Fortunately, with a full quota of photographers, there were plenty of diversions to temper the bash and it was always amusing to study the ridiculous postures adopted by the wild flower experts, Henry and Arthur, to say nothing of the endless discussions on the higher technicalities of close-up photography.
-After tossing aid turning through one of the coldest nights
-I can ever remember, I awoke to Arthur's lusty shouts of "It's fixae4 I tell you it's finel What are you doing on your backs?"
-As it was barely five o'clock and I needed external supports to keep my eyelids open through not having slept since the thermometer dipped "below", I could not answer him and still be polite. It was a struggle to raise the body for a peep at the world beyond
-the tent's flap but it was worth it. From a pale but clear sky
-above the freshly-risen sun slanted down to wake up the landscape spread beneath our camp like a huge relief map. We looked down here and there onto the tops of fleecy clouds, clouds that were to gradually dissolve as a promise of warmth grappled with the chill morning air, and there up above was the peak of Anne,
-waiting so calmly for us. There also close at hand were the
-Tassie crew, already well advanced with breakfast. The challenge
-or the shame, I'm not sure which, was overpowering - I shed my sleeping bag and jumped out of the tent with a whoopl (This article has not yet been corrected by my companions who may hold their own opinions).
-Equipped with one only day pack a very excited party started off for what promised to be a day of days. As we climbed higher, wide panoramic views to the south and west began to open
-up and even Frenchman's Cap, looking like the gabled end of a barn, could be picked out on the horizon. But as we breasted the top
-of the plateau, four pairs of eyes were suddenly held spellbound by the magnificent sight of Federation Peak playing hide and seek
-with a line of low horizon clouds. It was then that I became convinced that one day I would have to plan a trip to Federation -
-once seen it could never be forgotten. Indeed, in the excitement
-of recording this thrilling scene four times over with the tele lenses, we almost forgot that Mt. Anne, so close at hand, was still
-to be climbed. Fortunately, this day, unlike most others in the
-high regions of Tasmania, improved with age and by nin o'clock, barely a cloud remained in a sky of deepest blue. Strolling
-along the tops towards our objective, there was so much to see on every side and so many tempting visions for our caneras that
-I'd rather not say how long it took to cover those two miles. I
-remember looking back at one stage and seeing a tiny figure on the skyline darting from one edge of the plateau to the other.
-Poor Henry, his photographic impulses just would not let him come on. Eventually we were together again, climbing up among the
-crumbling dolerite columns of which Mt. 1.nne is made; and what a
-terrific thrill to stand upon that summit on such a dayl Just about everything that was worth seeing in southern Tasmania could be seen and appreciated; even Precipitous Bluff, practically on the southern coastline, stood out clear and sharp against the
-blue sky. Just to complete the picture, we were again visited by
-our old friend Lloyd Jones of the P_ero Club. He flew the Cessna
-over from Lake Pedder and buzzed us a friendly twice, skimming
-over our heads so low that we could easily enjoy the astonished expressions on the faces of his tourist passengers. That !plane
-covered the distance from Pedder to Anne in five minutes flat, a journey that would take we bushmalkers two full days - but at least we could stand there on our own two feet with a vital pride in the
-achievement behind us.
-Lunchtime saw avery entranced party satisfying their scenic
-appetites with what surely must be one of the most beautiful natural landscapes in the world. From the rocky eastern edge of the plateau our gaze shot down plummeting precipices into the
-lovely blue depths of Juddfs Charm two thousand feet below. Across
-the lake the incredibly steep slopes of Mt. Sarah Jane, completely covered by the densest and greenest mantle of vegetation (something for the tigers) I have ever seen, rose up nearly to our own level. Far beyond the southern tip of the Charm and some intriguing hanging lakes cradled in their own circle of mountains, the sheer slab nf Federation Peak dominated the razor-sharp horizon of the Lrthur Range. These features stood out in their attraction and competi,- tion for the eye, but even without them it would be a sight that no true bushwalker would be likely to forget.
-The rest of the day was spent in leisurely exploring the many interesting features of this remarkable mountain mass. Wild flowers there were a-plenty and of course Henry and Arthur were in their element while Joan and I contented ourselves with trying
-to photograph the landscape at large. Finally, after almost twelve
-hours of exposure in that brilliant sunshine, it was no hardship to return to our high camp and think about the inner man, for we had had our fill in overflowing measure. At twenty minutes to nine we sipped coffee and watched with wonderment as the sun, distorted into the shape of a fiery ten gallon hat, sank into the
-ocean fifty miles to the south-west. It had been OUR day from beginning to end, and as the fullmoon peeked over Mt. Anne, we
-slid into our sleeping bags to sleep the sleep which only the great outclors can bring to bushwalkers.
-The next morning it was time to be off the mountain. Only three days remained of our trip, the three days it would take us
-to walk out to Maydena. Only the continuing spell of fine weather tempered our regret at leaving Mt. Anne behind. And so, quietly, each engrossed in his own thoughts, we descended the ridge and looked back, and looked back again. At Condeminion Ck. the gear was recovered and the loads reorganised - ah, that loathsome lump
-was getting lighter at last and it was not hard to take. Lunch and a well-earned bath at Huon Crossing ald camp at Woody Island set the pattern  the day, a good day made even better by a memoralple campsite and a still more memorable menu. From our tenille pitched in a clearing amid beautiful gum trees, we looked
-out ait Mt. Anne again for the last tiz,3 its peak ablaze in the low rays of the evening sun. Spread over a respectable period of about
-three hours, it was a pleasure to engage in a marathon eating effort of six "courses" - tea, soup, salmon fritters and mashed potato, apricots and mellah, coffee and finally rum cocoa for a nightcap. The forty odd salmon fritters conjured out of a 1 lb. tin of salmon
-were a masterpiece of bushwalking economy. The one trouble was that we burnt too many of them when the lot of us raced out on two
-occasions to take pictures of the sunset. (Like all sunset
-a.
-pictures, the colours improved no end after the first impetuous shots and we graciously gave Kodak a second dividend.) ":;' mighty
+Our goal was now well in sight but what's this? Surprise of surprises! Without warning we had suddenly stumbled on the most delightful little creek running fair slap-bang through the middle of those soggy plains. The sparkling clear water ran swiftly over a bed of clean smooth stones, so reminiscent of our own Blue Mountains. After consulting the map I realised that it was the lower reaches of Condeminion Ck., whose source lies high up on the slopes of Mt. Anne - no wonder it was the best water in Tasmania! We made a pleasant camp amidst a clump of trees higher up the creek, just where it runs past the foot of the climbing ridge. It was mighty good to relax through the long summer twilight and put a mug of soup, a giant plate of "Henry's Meal" (see Henry for the secret formula) and a couple of syrup dumplings in the place where they ought to go.
-trip", breathed Joan with a sigh as we bedded down onto a soft
-mattress of cut bauera, little dreaming that on the morrow we would be cursing this innocent looking shrub as we pushed through it along the track,
-How well I remember our first encounter with the enemy.
-Previously we had enjoyed our arguments with the local walkers on
-long trousers versus shorts for Tassie bushwalking. "Wait till
-you strike our bauera," they laughed. We were not convinced then,
-but after braving it for a few hundred yards in shorts, we were forced to admit defeat. It was then that Arthur could not find
-his trousers; every nook mad cranny of the "Mountain Mule" was
-examined but although the oaths became more bloody, still no long pants were forthcoming. It was a shorts job for Arthur that day,
-and a rather painful one at that. Only when he went to bed thrt
-night did he unearth his precious pants - right down in the bctL,,pm
-of his sleeping bag cover. I have steadfastly refrained
-setting down in print the muffled language which filtered out from
-the inside of his tent that night.
-Those last two days were really enjoyable for their variety - good solid track (?) walking through country that was always delightfully changing its character. There were the cool damp myrtle forests with their vines and mosses and their atmosphere of great age and decay; (how can we forget the stumbling over the interminable trees fallen across the track); there were the open button grass plains with their quartzite outcrops, the stretches of green forest where giant ferns formed a canopy above the track and the pleasant interlude of gum trees with good burning wood, and of course, not forgetting the patches of unspeakable Tasmanian mud to make life interesting. Personal incidents
-and laughs were two bob a dozen with a party of such character as
-ours and we revelled in the life - it was bushwaking and comradeship at its very best. All too soon we found ourselves surrounded
-by the signs of civilisation, until at the end of our last day four bushwalkers with all the character of a long tough trip stanped upon them walked quietly into the little town of Maydena
-It was here that the famous Tasmanian h:,spitality treated us so
-unexpectedly and so unstintingly to glorious hot baths and home- cooked food. Civilisation would indeed have been hard to take without such compensations.
-i nd so our trip had ended, as end they all must; that is except for the hundreds of colour ilides and the bragging and the endless story-telling and the reminiscenses, and as far as all that
-was concerned, it had only just begun. THE END
-L.NYONE WP.,NT A BAG?
-The sleeping variety. Standard length Paddymade sleeping
-bag in good order - 4. See Eric Pegram or ring XB04401.
+As we lingered over coffee (or was it rum cocoa) and discussed plans for Anne, dark clouds came sweeping up from the south - in ten minutes a cloudless sky had been transformed into a distinctly ominous one. But that's so typical of the South-West; changes in the weather for better or worse can occur with such frightening speed. However, the weather did not seem to matter then, not when bodies as tired as ours were being called to that haven of tents and sleeping bags we had come to appreciate so much.
+But in the morning it was a different story - the low and threatening cloud ceiling took the edge off our enthusiasm. The mountains which had surrounded us in all their glory the previous day had suddenly ceased to exist. Eliza's climbing ridge disappeared into a forbidding sea of grey less than half-way up its length - the conditions were not exactly promising for an exposed high camp but our hopes would be dashed, Our plan was to carry two days food up to a spot just underneath the top of Mt. Eliza, a recognised campsite from which the Mt. Anne plateau can be comfortably explored. So, stringing up the excess food and gear from a tree, we set off up the ridge and reached our objective after a steady two hour climb. Several members of the Launceston Walking Club were already encamped, straining at the leash for an attempt on Anne at the first break in the weather. As the first bout of icy rain stung our faces we carved two tent sites out of the small dead timber which covers the ridge at this point. I might mention the necessity of placing a stout log across the bottom end of the tent to prevent sleeping bodies from sliding out of cover down the 30 degree slope. A biting southerly provided a hint of what conditions could be like in prolonged bad weather. Later in the afternoon the swirling all around east gave some sign of breaking and a two club party hurried to the tops, but it was all so much wishful thinking; once or twice the murk thinned out to give us tantalising glimpses of great boulder strewn slopes and plunging ridges; there was nothing for it but to return to camp with fingers crossed for the day to come.
+After tossing and turning through one of the coldest nights I can ever remember, I awoke to Arthur's lusty shouts of "It's fixed I tell you,it's fine. What are you doing on your backs?" As it was barely five o'clock and I needed external supports to keep my eyelids open through not having slept since the thermometer dipped "below", I could not answer him and still be polite. It was a struggle to raise the body for a peep at the world beyond the tent's flap but it was worth it. From a pale but clear sky
+above the freshly-risen sun slanted down to wake up the landscape spread beneath our camp like a huge relief map. We looked down here and there onto the tops of fleecy clouds, clouds that were to gradually dissolve as a promise of warmth grappled with the chill morning air, and there up above was the peak of Anne, waiting so calmly for us. There also close at hand were the Tassie crew, already well advanced with breakfast. The challenge or the shame, I'm not sure which, was overpowering - I shed my sleeping bag and jumped out of the tent with a whoop (This article has not yet been corrected by my companions who may hold their own opinions).
+Equipped with one only day pack a very excited party started off for what promised to be a day of days. As we climbed higher, wide panoramic views to the south and west began to open up and even Frenchman's Cap, looking like the gabled end of a barn, could be picked out on the horizon. But as we breasted the top
+of the plateau, four pairs of eyes were suddenly held spellbound by the magnificent sight of Federation Peak playing hide and seek with a line of low horizon clouds. It was then that I became convinced that one day I would have to plan a trip to Federation - once seen it could never be forgotten. Indeed, in the excitement of recording this thrilling scene four times over with the tele lenses, we almost forgot that Mt. Anne, so close at hand, was still to be climbed. Fortunately, this day, unlike most others in the
+high regions of Tasmania, improved with age and by nine o'clock, barely a cloud remained in a sky of deepest blue. Strolling along the tops towards our objective, there was so much to see on every side and so many tempting visions for our cameras that I'd rather not say how long it took to cover those two miles. I remember looking back at one stage and seeing a tiny figure on the skyline darting from one edge of the plateau to the other. Poor Henry, his photographic impulses just would not let him come on.
+Eventually we were together again, climbing up among the crumbling dolerite columns of which Mt.Anne is made; and what a terrific thrill to stand upon that summit on such a day. Just about everything that was worth seeing in southern Tasmania could be seen and appreciated; even Precipitous Bluff, practically on the southern coastline, stood out clear and sharp against the blue sky. Just to complete the picture, we were again visited by our old friend Lloyd Jones of the Aero Club. He flew the Cessna over from Lake Pedder and buzzed us a friendly twice, skimming over our heads so low that we could easily enjoy the astonished expressions on the faces of his tourist passengers. That plane covered the distance from Pedder to Anne in five minutes flat, a journey that would take we bushwalkers two full days - but at least we could stand there on our own two feet with a vital pride in the achievement behind us.
+Lunchtime saw a very entranced party satisfying their scenic appetites with what surely must be one of the most beautiful natural landscapes in the world. From the rocky eastern edge of the plateau our gaze shot down plummeting precipices into the lovely blue depths of Judd's Charm two thousand feet below. Across
+the lake the incredibly steep slopes of Mt. Sarah Jane, completely covered by the densest and greenest mantle of vegetation (something for the tigers) I have ever seen, rose up nearly to our own level. Far beyond the southern tip of the Charm and some intriguing hanging lakes cradled in their own circle of mountains, the sheer slab of Federation Peak dominated the razor-sharp horizon of the Arthur Range. These features stood out in their attraction and competition for the eye, but even without them it would be a sight that no true bushwalker would be likely to forget.
+The rest of the day was spent in leisurely exploring the many interesting features of this remarkable mountain mass. Wild flowers there were a-plenty and of course Henry and Arthur were in their element while Joan and I contented ourselves with trying to photograph the landscape at large. Finally, after almost twelve hours of exposure in that brilliant sunshine, it was no hardship to return to our high camp and think about the inner man, for we had had our fill in overflowing measure. At twenty minutes to nine we sipped coffee and watched with wonderment as the sun, distorted into the shape of a fiery ten gallon hat, sank into the ocean fifty miles to the south-west. It had been OUR day from beginning to end, and as the full moon peeked over Mt. Anne, we slid into our sleeping bags to sleep the sleep which only the great outdoors can bring to bushwalkers.
+The next morning it was time to be off the mountain. Only three days remained of our trip, the three days it would take us to walk out to Maydena. Only the continuing spell of fine weather tempered our regret at leaving Mt. Anne behind. And so, quietly, each engrossed in his own thoughts, we descended the ridge and looked back, and looked back again. At Condeminion Ck. the gear was recovered and the loads reorganised - ah, that loathsome lump was getting lighter at last and it was not hard to take. Lunch and a well-earned bath at Huon Crossing and camp at Woody Island set the pattern for the day, a good day made even better by a memorable campsite and a still more memorable menu. From our tents pitched in a clearing amid beautiful gum trees, we looked out at Mt. Anne again for the last time, its peak ablaze in the low rays of the evening sun. Spread over a respectable period of about three hours, it was a pleasure to engage in a marathon eating effort of six "courses" - tea, soup, salmon fritters and mashed potato, apricots and mellon, coffee and finally rum cocoa for a nightcap. The forty odd salmon fritters conjured out of a 1 lb. tin of salmon were a masterpiece of bushwalking economy. The one trouble was that we burnt too many of them when the lot of us raced out on two occasions to take pictures of the sunset. (Like all sunset
+apictures, the colours improved no end after the first impetuous shots and we graciously gave Kodak a second dividend.) "Mighty trip", breathed Joan with a sigh as we bedded down onto a soft mattress of cut bauera, little dreaming that on the morrow we would be cursing this innocent looking shrub as we pushed through it along the track,
+How well I remember our first encounter with the enemy. Previously we had enjoyed our arguments with the local walkers on long trousers versus shorts for Tassie bushwalking. "Wait till you strike our bauera," they laughed. We were not convinced then, but after braving it for a few hundred yards in shorts, we were forced to admit defeat. It was then that Arthur could not find his trousers; every nook mad cranny of the "Mountain Mule" was examined but although the oaths became more bloody, still no long pants were forthcoming. It was a shorts job for Arthur that day, and a rather painful one at that. Only when he went to bed that night did he unearth his precious pants - right down in the bottom of his sleeping bag cover. I have steadfastly refrained setting down in print the muffled language which filtered out from the inside of his tent that night.
+Those last two days were really enjoyable for their variety - good solid track (?) walking through country that was always delightfully changing its character. There were the cool damp myrtle forests with their vines and mosses and their atmosphere of great age and decay; (how can we forget the stumbling over the interminable trees fallen across the track); there were the open button grass plains with their quartzite outcrops, the stretches of green forest where giant ferns formed a canopy above the track and the pleasant interlude of gum trees with good burning wood, and of course, not forgetting the patches of unspeakable Tasmanian mud to make life interesting. Personal incidents and laughs were two bob a dozen with a party of such character as ours and we revelled in the life - it was bushwalking and comradeship at its very best.
+All too soon we found ourselves surrounded by the signs of civilisation, until at the end of our last day four bushwalkers with all the character of a long tough trip stamped upon them walked quietly into the little town of Maydena.
+It was here that the famous Tasmanian hospitality treated us so unexpectedly and so unstintingly to glorious hot baths and home-cooked food. Civilisation would indeed have been hard to take without such compensations.
+And so our trip had ended, as end they all must; that is except for the hundreds of colour slides and the bragging and the endless story-telling and the reminiscenses, and as far as all that was concerned, it had only just begun. THE END
 ====== Your Walking Guide ======