Taking a Question for a Walk

“How much longer do you think you’ll be overnight bushwalking?” 

That question comes as two bushwalkers with a long, shared history sit in the back of a car on the way to Lake Mackenzie, in Tasmania’s Central Highlands. They’re both in their 70s, so it isn’t a purely idle question. Few of us get to our 70s unscathed. We often have bodily issues – inside and out – that start to impinge on our physical capabilities. 

A case in point: one month ago, with two younger bushwalking friends, they had travelled up from Hobart to Mole Creek. They’d planned to stay overnight in the hotel then drive up to Lake Mackenzie for a three day bushwalk in the Blue Peaks area. But overnight one of them had become quite ill. The walk had to end before it had even begun. 

Fast forward to the March Long Weekend. The same four; the same plan. Blue Peaks: Take Two. The night at the hotel was very pleasant. They’d eaten well, then chatted and relaxed around the fire pot as a perfect day slipped gently towards evening. 

[Take Two: Enjoying the fire pit at Mole Creek Hotel]

Next morning their plan was to leave around 9, but they’d surprised themselves by being ready early. The other two in the party had never been to the Blue Peaks, and this was to be their introduction. The pair of older gentlemen had been exploring the area for over a decade. For them this was to be a fond return, a gentle exploration rather than an expedition. Still, a walk doesn’t walk itself, nor does a hill climb itself. So, after leaving the car at Lake Mackenzie, there was a degree of puffing uphill from the lake. They’d told the others there wasn’t much of a climb, but one of their watches declared that they may have bent the truth. The ascent was actually around 200m over a few kilometres; not a big climb, but enough to tell out-of-tune bodies that they’d been working. 

[Uphill from Lake Mackenzie]

That, sadly, fitted with the out-of-tune landscape. Damage from the 2016 bushfires that had ravaged this area was still plain to see. Saddest to witness were those plant species that were not recovering, especially pencil pines, sphagnum and some scoparia. In one valley a whole grove of pines had been all-but wiped out. But in the next valley, a similar grove was fully intact. The group paused at both to take in the stark contrast. * 

[Pencil Pines: Fire killed (above) cf Thriving]

The mild challenge of the walk continued when one member of the party misjudged a creek crossing, and fell face-first into ground that was not as soft as they had imagined. Despite a degree of pain and lost dignity, the victim allowed some candid photographs before full composure had been regained. 

[Ooops! A slip and a fall ...]

After a bit over 2 and a half hours, the group reached the campsite, and gladly threw down their packs in a small, hospitable grove of pencil pines. It was good to be back among these familiar pines, breathing their air, taking in a wider scene that’s graced with lakes near and far. And beyond that with mountains, mountains where their feet had been. A fresh breeze swirled around, mainly from the west, so tent sites were chosen with care. Then it was time for lunch, followed by the mandatory water collection. Work done, and muscles whinging a little, it was time for some relaxation. Truth be told, there may even have been some horizontal resting in tents, away from the mosquitoes that had begun to locate their targets. 

[The view from the Campsite]

Late afternoon, mosquitoes or not, the call of happy hour – with wine, cheese and other delicacies – couldn’t be ignored. They sat in a grassy area around a rock slab that served as their table. It was a beautiful spot to take in the expansive vista across lakes and mountains. And above that the evening sky was beginning to get ready for its daily sunset display. But before that, back in the pine-sheltered kitchen area, meals had to be cooked, compared and consumed. As they sat back replete, the chatter indicated that the two who were new to the area were warming to this much-favoured destination. 

After dinner one member of the party had unaccountably restless legs, and decided to go for an after-dinner walk. No-one else was keen to add more miles to their day’s tally, so he wandered solo down to the neighbouring lake, then along its shore. The water was low, the "tide" out. Perhaps that accounted for the absence of the swans that normally settled overnight on the lake.

[Lakeside scene a few hundred metres from Camp]

The small details of the Central Plateau are one of its lesser-known gems. For instance: golden mountain rocket. He’d been here before with his wife, and they’d delighted in finding golden seed heads in place of the expected red ones on a few mountain rocket plants. A botanist had told them this was rare, but not unknown. And now, as he ambled along the lake, he was finding more golden variants, albeit far outnumbered by the red version. But the sun was lowering, and it was time to return “home” for the sunset show. 

[The Usual Red Seed Heads on Mountain Rocket]

[Golden Seed Heads on Mountain Rocket]

Back at camp, he found the two "newbies" had already headed tent-ward. So, it was only the two stalwarts who braved the growing cold to watch this ever-new, ever-changing show on the widest of widescreens. A neat array of clouds hovered above the horizon: a promising arrangement for a sunset show. As they waited and watched, the sun seemed in no hurry, and their scrutiny didn't speed proceedings. They distracted themselves by marvelling at hundreds of moths that fluttered into the dusk sky, and spiralled around the nearby pencil pines. They were glad they far outnumbered the mosquitoes.

Eventually the sun did the miraculous thing it has done every day since our planet was formed: it dipped below the horizon. (Or, more correctly, our planet rotated out of the path of the sun’s rays). Now for the cold and patient wait for the sunlight on the underside of the clouds to finish off the show as it saw fit. The two of them photographed, chatted, waited, shivered, and photographed some more. And they reminded each other that they were, after all, at the same altitude as Kunanyi/Mt Wellington, and that warm gloves might have been a good idea!

[Sunset from the Campsite]

Had they been blasé television critics, they might have rated the sunset as good rather than great. But that would have been churlish, when really, their eyes were shining as they slowly turned from the westerly sky to take in the wider scene one more time. There was only a waft of breeze, and clouds were small and disorganised, suggesting they’d have a calm if chilly night in their tents. 

[Late sun near Camp, with a sunlit Little Throne, (centre back)]

It turned out calm for some, but for one party member, it was anything but. Cue the return of the same symptoms of an underlying illness that had scuttled their previous walk. The patient, they learned in the morning, had been up several times during the night. Digging holes for urgent toileting in the dark is no fun, they were told. Add rain and a torch failure, and … (the rest required little imagination). 

There was little discussion. If the situation was short of “press the button, call the helicopter”, it definitely required an early departure. Our patient was as upset about abandoning a second trip as he was about feeling crook. The other three simply accepted the necessity of getting out a day early. So they began packing. The patient couldn’t hold down any breakfast, but he sipped some hot water, and slowly packed up. 

[Healthy, well-watered Sphagnum and Pencil Pines]

Fortunately, the overnight drizzle and showers now held off, and they packed up mostly dry gear, and got walking before 10am. In theory the walk back would be easier and quicker than the journey here. But that didn’t factor in a sick walker with no energy, who felt as though he was swimming upstream, even on a mostly downhill walk. For him, simply setting one foot in front of the other was an achievement. That made getting back to Lake Mackenzie in around the same time as yesterday’s walk in, an amazing effort. 

Despite the early forced departure, the group agreed that they had still met the walk’s major objective. The door to a special place had been opened for the “newbies”, and they were sure they’d be back. As for the patient, medical advice and time would determine his answer to that question posed in the back of the car on the way in to Lake Mackenzie. 

[Seed head, possibly Showy Copperwire Daisy] 

* It was heartening to see that the University of Tasmania, in collaboration with Hydro Tasmania, has begun restoration trials in the area, including the re-planting of pencil pines.

Back in the Saddle: Part 3

We‘re soaked by the time we get back to the hut. But given how long it takes for our wood heater to live up to its name, we give fire lighting a higher priority than changing into dry clothes. Or than eating the lunch that we’ve taken up to the tiny snarer’s hut, and brought back untouched.

So, it takes a long time for us to start to warm up, even while we’re sitting before the fire with food and a hot drink in hand. To compound things for Jim, he’s kept his inner layer on under his walking clothes, forgetting it’s not a thermal. It’s become soaking wet on our walk, and it’s only later that he remembers he still has it on.

Jim - and his wet clothes - by the fire

Although it’s early in the afternoon, lunch is done, and we've entirely run out of adventurous ambitions. Also we’re still cold, so when the rain comes back with a vengeance, we retreat to our sleeping bags: to read, perchance to snore, if I may mangle Shakespeare.

* * *

Rain on a tin roof. Isn’t that supposed to be soothing? An even patter between pitters, nature’s chitter chatter, lulling you to sleep. Not here, not this afternoon. This is no soft, comforting rhythm. Rain is catching in the branches above. Filtered, wind-shaken, it randomly, erratically spurts and drops and plops loudly onto the roof, as restful as one of those Bulgarian dance tunes, in 11/8 or 9/16 time. Or, in this case, perhaps 279/51!

The offending hut roof: not restful!

The lumpy barrage continues, and I fail to nod off. And then Jim’s phone rings. It seems there’s a weak, intermittent mobile signal up here, and someone’s been trying to contact him about arrangements for the coming State election. (Although retired, Jim does do some electoral work during elections.) That conversation is another type of intricate dance tune, and about as restful. But eventually – or so Jim assures me – I slip into a steady snore.

I wake maybe an hour later to find that Jim hasn’t slept at all. But he’s finally found out why. He’d shivered inside his very warm sleeping bag for more than an hour before discovering that his inner layer was still soaking wet. The non-thermal top is now off, and steaming in front of the fire. And Jim is older and wiser, and a little warmer.

And now I decide there’s a good side to having a mobile phone signal. Our good friend and regular walking companion, Tim D, wasn’t able to join us on this walk. But perhaps, I suggest to Jim, he might be free to join us for lunch in Mole Creek or Deloraine on our way out, given he’s almost a local to that area. Jim concurs, adding the name of a pub in Deloraine where he can get a special deal. This is vintage Jim: ever the bargain supremo. I message Tim, not sure whether the message will get through and, if it does, whether he will respond in time. I’m surprised on both counts when he answers with a keen “YES” almost immediately. 

The last of the day’s weak light is now leaking from the forest. Inside the hut our candles glow almost as brightly as the fire. My thermometer tells me we’ve reached 12 degrees, a record for our stay here. We celebrate by setting out some pre-dinner wine, cheese and crackers. That luxury segues into dinner preparations, at least for me. Jim has gone minimalist again, and reckons the pre-dinners and left over bread roll will suit him fine. After many years of walking with Jim, I’ve learned that on a bushwalk he’s a “food is fuel” man. In contrast I’m a “food is joy” man. Inevitably that leads to me offering to share some joy with Jim. As long as it’s not too spicy hot, and not too much, he usually accepts the offer, and tonight is no exception (even though it is another curry).

One cuisine choice we can both agree on is that chocolate goes perfectly with red wine. So, we end the evening meal that way. A deep dark comes early in this forest, especially with the winter solstice only a few days away. But at least the rain has finally eased, and the hiss and crackle of the fire gives us a far more peaceful background track to sleep by than the earlier rain dance. 

The hut's tidy, it's time to go

Our early night encourages an early morning, and we’re up before it’s fully light. Over the valley to the east, I see a hint of colour above a low bank of fog. Perhaps, I dare to think, the rain has properly gone. We breakfast and pack up, then set about cleaning the hut. Given the care that’s been put into the hut, especially by the Mountain Huts Preservation Society, it’s the least we can do. And then we close the hut door and depart. It’s an easy downhill walk, and we’re well ahead of schedule for our lunch appointment with Tim. All the more time for a coffee, we reckon.

On the walk back to the car I quiz Jim about how it’s been getting “back in the saddle”. Starting with his “dicky knee”, he gives it a fair-to-middling rating. He’s had to take extra care on the rougher sections, but overall, the knee has held up well. As for his Atrial Fibrillation, his watch tells him he’s had one episode during the walk. This slowed him down at the time, but was not a big worry. However, he adds, he’s very glad he didn’t have to rely on my (almost non-existent) first aid or CPR skills. I can only agree!

This creek was dry on our way up

We’re back in Deloraine nearly an hour early, and have a large coffee and a good long conversation with the owner of Deloraine Deli: an establishment we’ve enjoyed many times over the years. And then we waddle off to lunch with Tim D at the Deloraine Hotel. 

And now Jim’s “food is joy” side comes out. He orders a big meal, and a beer to match. Tim and I follow suit, and we have a great catch-up talking about recent walks and future plans. Do I notice a small degree of enthusiasm about future walks from Jim? With luck and a fair breeze, plus a hut and a fire, I suspect there’s every chance he’ll be in that saddle again.

Friends enjoying a post-walk lunch

Back in the Saddle: Part 2

The rain came in the evening, steady and solid. We were glad of the hut’s shelter and relative warmth. Our dinners: salad roll for Jim, rehydrated curry for me, were accompanied by red wine. We fed the fire too, although our limited stock of firewood, and the thermometer’s resistance to rising, prompted us to have an early night.

Fungi light up our dark, wet forest

It rained all night, all through breakfast, and for the rest of the morning. We only went out for firewood and toileting. Water pooling at the verandah’s edge didn’t encourage us to be out walking. Instead we chatted, read, made more coffee, and ate, congratulating ourselves on our wise choice in finding a hut to stay in. But eventually cabin fever set in, and we went for a wander around outside the hut, finding various logging artefacts, including a sled/cart and a couple of logging shoes. 

Logging shoes and trolley outside the hut

Before there were skidders and tracked vehicles, old-time loggers attached a metal “shoe” – curled like the front of a snow sled – onto the leading edge of a log. Bullocks or horses would then haul the log down the track, the shoe acting like the front of a sled and helping the log to slide more easily. This was a reminder that the original hut on this site had been built as a shelter for logging concessionaires back in the 1960s. And logging in the area started well before that.

When the drizzle turned to rain, we retreated to the fireside for yet another brew. But cabin fever – more accurately hut fever – soon set in again. So, when the rain eased a bit, we put on our wet weather gear, packed some food, and headed up the hill to see what we could see. I knew there was another smaller hut “a little further up the track”. What else do you do with hut fever than go looking for another hut?!

We hadn’t walked far before yesterday’s version of steep was greatly surpassed by today’s. At times it was like walking up a waterfall, albeit a very lush and green one. As we hauled ourselves up slippery rocks and around dripping ferns, we were more than thankful that we weren’t carrying full packs. (Yesterday we had actually considered the possibility of walking up to the second hut, if the first hut had been occupied.) 

Steeply uphill

We slipped and stumbled and sidled across the steep slope before finally reaching a plateau of sorts. And here the eucalypts, mosses and ferns gave way to smaller, thinner, lichen-dotted myrtle beech and teatree. The rain had eased, to be replaced by a cold, moist mist. We were literally walking in cloud. The track was already vague, so careful navigation now slowed further. The little blue dot on the map app became our friend. Somewhere in the fog, the map assured us, there was a small hut. 

Are we lost? Jim walks into the mist

In clear weather this would be easy walking. But in these conditions, we found ourselves back-tracking whenever we couldn’t see a tape or other track marker ahead. Eventually we reached a track junction, marked by a sign indicating the hut’s name. The blue dot confirmed that we were near our destination. As we were now soaking wet and tired, this was good news. However, the sign didn’t have an arrow, and the track went steeply up to the left. We couldn’t see a hut that way, and a slope like that seemed an unlikely place to build a hut. Instead we poked around in the misty forest for several more minutes until we finally saw the tiny hut. It was barely 50 metres away, but well camouflaged against surrounding trees by its own lichen-covered timber cladding.

The tiny hut in the mist

The neat but very humble hut was built by snarers close to a century ago. Its walls and roof were built entirely from rough-cut timber, though the substantial-looking fireplace was stone. Atop that sat a galvanised iron chimney – possibly a later addition. We stooped to enter through the tiny door, which creaked like an old-timer’s bones. Above the door was a small window, which let in minimal light. Immediately to the left of the door was the deep stone fireplace. It had a crude mantlepiece on top, dotted with a few old hut conveniences, including a mug, a candle and a small billy. Opposite the door were two small bunks and a slender bench. I dropped by pack and sat there, while Jim took a smaller seat in front of the fireplace.

 

Me inside the tiny hut (photo by Jim)

Despite being cold and wet, we quickly decided against lighting a fire. Our experience with the wood heater in “our” hut showed us it would be a long time before an open fire would heat us up, even in this tiny hut. 

Jim about to exit the snarer's hut

Instead, after a bit of scroggin and a cold drink, we closed the hut door and walked back into the misty forest. And back to the first hut. We’d only been out a couple of hours, and yet it felt vaguely epic. It felt even better once we had that fire cranked up again.

Getting the home fire burning again