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

Back in the Saddle: Part 1

A grumpy Jim moment a few years back: The wind is howling from the south-west as we walk across the Central Plateau. Occasional showers of cold, near-horizontal rain lash us. We endure it for as long as we can, then seek shelter of sorts behind a low jumble of rocks. Hunched down, we swig water, scoff scroggin, and suck air back into our lungs. The wind keeps thundering past, but a bit of sun shines on us. I take it as a signal to get moving again. But as I stand up to leave, Jim stays put, stoic and unmoving on his rocky perch. I snap a quick photo. Barely audible over the blasting wind, I hear him mumble a caption: “Jim’s last bushwalk”. 

Jim's Last Walk?

Of course it wasn’t his last walk. Jim tends to exaggerate at times. But it is fair to say that since that trip, his prerequisite list for walks has expanded. If the potential walk is long; the forecast wet; the going scrubby or off-track; the walk is in the south-west; or it doesn’t include a hut, he’s likely to be “unavailable”. Part of me can understand some of this. After all he and I are now in our 70s, and we have done this kind of rugged walking together for near enough to forty years. We already have so many great shared memories, including summiting Federation Peak, Tasmania’s hardest mountain. But another part of me isn’t ready for bushwalking to be just tales told from the armchair. And in Jim’s case, I reckon there’s life in the old dog yet. 

It’s against this background, with winter looming, that Jim gives the slightest hint that he wouldn’t mind a bit of a leg stretch. I need no further encouragement, and tell him about a new-to-us hut in the Great Western Tiers area. I enthuse further: it’s less than two hours from the track head, and (crucially) it has a wood heater. After the mildest of arm twisting, Jim is in. We carve out a few days, pack the car, and get set to drive up towards Mole Creek. 

Jim ready to start

But before we get to that, it's fair to mention a couple of other key reasons behind Jim’s pickiness about bushwalks. One is what he would call a “dicky knee”, the result of falling downstairs while carrying a load for someone. Despite physio. work, this continues to cause him grief at times, and to make walking something of a lottery. But a more serious issue was revealed after a series of medical visits; the kind that people of our age can’t (and shouldn’t) avoid. Jim has found that he has atrial fibrillation (hereafter AFib). It’s a not-uncommon heart condition in which the upper chambers of the heart (atria) beat out of sync with the lower chambers (ventricles). This results in an irregular and often more rapid heartbeat, and can lead to various complications. I’ll leave you to look it up, so you can potentially be one of those “helpful” friends who gives advice based on “Doctor Google”, rather than a decade or more of medical training. 

Understandably Jim has not been tickety-boo about all this. As a precaution he’s purchased a new watch that can warn him when he goes into AFib. Although for him the condition is largely asymptomatic, it does mean that during an episode he will have to work harder. “It’s like walking into a headwind, or swimming upstream” he tells me. All of this had been enough to flatten his normally jovial disposition. But it may also explain the above “Jim’s last bushwalk” grumpiness. He was possibly having an (undiagnosed) AFib episode during that walk. 

It's all uphill

More recently he’s received some better news. Follow-up tests and a checkup with his cardiologist have brightened the outlook somewhat. Amid the better news came one piece of advice that stood out: Just get on with life! And since one of the joys of life is to be walking into the wilds – even if Jim will find it harder – here we are, ready to walk into the wintery mountains. 

It's cool and a little cloudy, and the forecast is “mixed”; not ideal walking weather. Even so we can’t rule out the possibility of other walkers being up at the hut. So, when we arrive at the rather remote track head, and there’s one other car there, we’re apprehensive. We begin to make the mental adjustment to the prospect of sharing the hut. That shift of focus is probably a good distraction from us both becoming walking heart monitors, given the medical background to our trip. Instead, we just hoist packs and start walking towards whatever will be. 

Within 15 minutes we see two walkers coming down the track towards us. We ask them our critical questions, and are relieved. Yes, it’s their car in the carpark, and no, they’re not staying the night at the hut. Better still, they tell us, there’s no-one else there. We chat cheerily for a few minutes, then wish them well and set off uphill. Now farmland gives way to regrowth forest, and the track begins to narrow, its verges green and mossy, with contrasting pops of colourful fungi. 

Moss, ferns and fungi 

Colourful trackside fungi

We cross a pedestrian bridge where there was once a road bridge. Water trickles and tinkles beneath us, while the trees stretch and rustle high above us. This area was logged until late last century, but some big trees escaped the axe and chainsaw. The steepness of the slope might explain their luck, but it also adds to our labour. Although the walk to the hut is shortish, we’re in what you might call “winter shape”, rather than walking fit. We huff and puff up the track, but manage to keep plodding. 

Dwarfed by a giant survivor

We’re soon an hour into the walk, but I resist looking at my GPS map app to check our progress. As amazing as I find this technology, one thing it never seems to do is shorten a walk. But half an hour later, figuring we must be nearing the hut, I sneak a look at my phone map. The blue dot tells me we’re very close, less than 100m. And miraculously it’s right! Just around a bend, in a small clearing of the wet forest, we find the hut. It’s a happy moment, and not only for my hut-o-phile companion. 

The Hut At Last!

We explore the humble hut. It’s cold inside, but neat and dry, and surprisingly well-equipped, with a table and chairs, and of course the wood heater. There are sleeping platforms for 4 or 5, so we can spread out. But our most vital job is to get that fire going. Behind the door we find a bow saw and block-splitter, and outside a repurposed rain tank with a modest supply of firewood. We’ve brought some firelighters with us, but there’s also a supply inside, along with matches. We even discover a toilet with an actual toilet seat (and toilet paper). “Looxury, sheer looxury!” says Jim. 

Expert log splitter at work!

It’s not yet raining, but the forest feels dark and damp. My thermometer tells me it’s 6 degrees C, so we’re more than keen to get the fire started. While Jim gets busy splitting some logs, I saw some branches into firebox size bits. Then we scrounge some dryish kindling from the surrounding bush. An hour later, with the wood heater doing its best, the hut has only reached a modest 11 degrees. Over the couple of days we stay there, we’re surprised that we struggle to warm the hut much more than that. But there are discernible air gaps in the walls, floors and ceiling. Also, the wood heater is set back in the hearth of what was originally an open fire, so a lot of its heat is lost up the chimney. First world problems, we mutter to each other. The mere glow of the fire is enough for now. That, plus a hot brew … and a puffer jacket.

Enjoying the glow, but keeping puffers on.

The Not-So-Plain Plains: Part 4

I’ll start with a confession. I am not the speediest of bushwalkers, not only in terms of actual walking pace, but also in terms of how quickly I pack up and get ready to depart. My walking companions refer to this as PFAing (short for the old Aussie slang: Piss Farting Around). It’s the ability to take a long time to get not much done. It’s an under-appreciated skill, and normally I’m accompanied by others who can match me in this (you know who you are!) 

[Waiting for me on a previous walk]

But on this walk, I am the PFAer nonpareil. So, knowing we have an early departure planned for our last day, I choose to play a different game. It goes something like this.

Move 1. Wake up excessively early. Yes, it’s not even 6am; it’s cold and dark, and the forest is dripping. But the rain has stopped. Up you get!

Move 2. Push aside any guilt you feel about ruining the quiet. You can’t wriggle out of a sleeping bag, deflate a sleeping mat, and stuff all your bits and pieces into bags without making an unreasonable amount of noisy rustling.

Move 3.  Go to the kitchen area, and find that water has pooled on the tarp roof. Further ruin the peace by splooshingthe water onto the ground. That’ll be sure to rouse the others from their tents!

Move 4. Forget about normal breakfast. A muesli bar will keep you going. No muesli bar? Never mind, a Snickers Bar or two is the breakfast of champions. And they’re just great with cold water.

Move 5. As the others amble into the kitchen area, greet them cheerfully, then stand up in an obvious way and go off to finish your packing.

Move 6. While the others have whatever they’re having for breakfast (don’t look; don’t envy!) go off into the forest for your toilet time.

Move 7. Your packing done, it’s time to buckle on your pack, lean nonchalantly against a tree, whistling and waiting. Better still, offer to help the others get ready. They probably won’t accept your offer, but you’ll have made your point.

 

In truth I may not have played the game this perfectly on our last morning. But – wonders will never cease – I am actually ready to leave with the others! 

 

That said, if I think that was the hard part, I am soon proven wrong. Tim has a plan, an untested one. Knowing how difficult our scrubby ascent onto the Februaries had been, he’s studied the maps, and thinks a direct descent towards the Wurragarra Creek can’t be worse. 

[Let the scrub bashing begin!]

We’re soon struggling through chest high scoparia and tea tree, and our trust in Tim is faltering. On our way in it had taken us around 90 minutes to get through the scrub. And that was uphill. Surely this couldn’t be worse? The answer to that may seem subjective, but sheer arithmetic must come into it. Yes it’s downhill, but we take over 100 minutes of rough, wet scrub bashing to reach the Wurragarra. I complicate matters by attempting an “alternative” crossing of the creek. When I finally crawl out of the scrub and join the others on the far bank, they’ve been waiting 15 minutes. That’s PFAing of which I’m not proud! I‘ve torn my trousers, have scrub debris down my neck, in my pockets, and through my beard and hair. If this morning’s walk is a game, I doubt even 0.5% of bushwalkers would buy it!

[A blaze on a creek-side pine - click to enlarge]

Tim is still upbeat, and assures us we’re almost out to the Arm River Track. Before that he stops to show us a very old and elaborate blaze on a pencil pine beside the creek. He tells us it’s older than those made by trappers and hunters, but relates to what was once called the Mole Creek Track. The blaze was probably cut in the late 1890s to mark a creek crossing point. It’s likely it was the work of surveyor E.G. Innes and/or his team as they surveyed potential railway routes.

[The scrub thinning, Mt Pillinger behind]

 

[Walking towards Mt Pillinger through coral fern]

By now the scrub has thinned out. Straggly, strangling shrubs give way to carpets of coral fern. It’s low, tough, deep green and makes for easy walking. We swish through the fern percussively, and soon reach the Arm River Track. It feels like a highway after our days of off-track walking, and we are glad of the fast and easy walking. 

[On the Arm River Track at last]

Merran and Libby lead off, and Tim and I bring up the rear. As the women pass a commercial walking group coming up the track, they nod and say hello, but don’t stop for a chat. However they’re sure we will. Not only does Tim love a good chat, but he and Merran’s son works for that walking company. And sure enough, as soon as we meet them we’re conversing with the head guide, whose boss is Tim and Merran’s son. We ask how their clients are coping with this “non-Overland Track” section of the Overland Track; a temporary change brought about by the loss of their second night hut in the February 2025 bushfires. He tells us that some walkers are fine with it, but others find the Arm River Track quite arduous.

[In rainforest on the Arm River Track - photo by Tim]

We wave them off, secretly glad to be going the opposite way. We’re soon delighting in the changing surrounds: now deep rainforest, now open heath. And then we hit the switch-backs, which start to feel never-ending. The constant downhill thumping takes its toll on the soles of our feet. Mine feel hot and on the edge of blistering. But there’s only one way to get this job done. “Soldier on” is a phrase literally made for this kind of persistent plodding. And it gets us there, back to the car in which we’re soon speeding back to Sheffield. There a café lunch together rounds off another great wilderness walk. We are feeling the privilege of being among the “0.5%” of walkers who’ve been where we’ve just been.

[What a privilege to walk in such places!]

 

The Not-So-Plain Plains: Part 3

There’s a problem trying to have a grandpa nap when your bushwalking companions are so darned interesting! As I lie in my tent after our long day of off-track walking, I’m hoping to have at least a micro nap before getting up to enjoy an afternoon and evening in our beautiful forest. But Tim, Merran and Libby are having a fascinating discussion, just within earshot. My curious mind usurps my tired one, and I lie there enjoying the chatter. I’m occasionally tempted to call out with my 2 bobs worth, but I refrain. Instead, after a small rest, I emerge from my cocoon and join the others.

[Resting, but not asleep]

Tim is setting up the tarp over our kitchen area, and I lend my lack-of-expertise to the exercise. Part of the reason for camping inside the forest is that showers and strong winds are forecast some time later. So we welcome the idea of a dry area for cooking and relaxing. Tim continues to tweak the tarp for some minutes, flicking some paracord over a branch, tightening a couple of knots, tautening a corner. Finally he exhales in satisfaction and sits on his camp chair under the tarp. We all do the same, feeling we’ve earned some downtime.

 

[Merran, Tim and Libby being interesting!]

We converse sparsely but comfortably as we feel the peace of the forest settling on us. If “Tim’s” forest had a grandma myrtle, this forest has both the matriarch and the patriarch of all pencil pines. We are truly in awe of these giant pines; older, taller and less scathed than any we’ve ever seen in our long years of walking in the Tasmanian highlands. They stand just metres from our tents, surrounded by their kith and kin, as well as a myriad other green and growing things. Wendel Berry, reflecting on the forests of his Kentucky farm, wrote “in the stillness of the trees I am at home.” We can only say amen to that.

[Green - and brown - peace inside our forest]

The weather holds overnight, although cloud cover is thickening as we breakfast. We stick with our plan to explore more of the area. This time we start by walking the width of our special forest. Thick layers of brilliant green moss and variegated brown leaf litter muffle the crunch of our bootsteps as we pick our way north. We emerge from the forest into what feels like bright daylight, and climb a small hill which looks down to a wide tarn. One shore of the lake is fringed by sphagnum and pencil pines; the other is rockier, and favoured by sparse eucalypt growth. 

[Pines on one side, eucalypts on the other]

As we circumnavigate the tarn, light rain begins to fall. We pause to put on rain gear – the first time on the whole trip – then continue exploring the lakeshore. We stop in a wide grassy section on one side of the lake, and can see plenty of animal traces such as pads and droppings. We conjecture that this would have been an ideal hunting ground for the palawa Aboriginal people, with hiding places such as rocks and trees adjacent to the grazing ground.

[Contorted pencil pine beside a tarn]

We now walk west for some time, and the rain showers come and go. There are no tracks, but we gladly follow wombat pads, as they can provide a route of sorts, given that wombats generally avoid the thickest scrub. There is a caveat however: these squat creatures are rather better than humans at walking under bushes. 

 

And now we draw close to areas that we walked through yesterday, but decide we’ll vary our route by making for a particular valley that the other three visited a few years ago. Bizarrely on that trip they came across a completely intact board game of Trivial Pursuit in the wilderness. We wonder if we can find this needle in a haystack again. Both Tim and Libby are sure they recognise certain landmarks.

 

[A fruitless pursuit down valley towards the plateau's edge]

They wander all over the place in what looks a rather brown’s-cows fashion. But despite their efforts, they can find neither the exact location nor the game. Perhaps the “0.5%” has come back to finish the game, and then taken it home again. Disappointed by this fruitless pursuit, and by the continuing showers, we walk quickly down to the southern lip of the Februaries. There we pause for lunch, in the shelter of some dolerite slabs. 

[Overland Track peaks from the edge of February Plains]

[Red seed heads of mountain rocket]

Between showers we catch views south over The Pelions and the Cathedral Plateau. But a cold, whipping wind and increasingly sharp showers make lunch a hurried affair. We’re soon off in the direction of the Tarn of Islands, knowing that not far beyond that we’ll find the stillness and peace of our home forest.

 

[Time to head for our forest home!]

Back “home” the wisdom of both a forest camp and a good tarp become clear. We fit neatly beneath the tarp, and sit sipping a warm drink to the sound of wind shooshing through the trees. Some of the younger trees sway and creak excitably as the strong south-west wind sets in. At ground level we only feel occasional wafts of wind. Even the patter of rain on the tarp is softened by the overhead umbrella of trees. 

 

It’s April, and with our part of the planet tilting away from the sun, afternoon soon morphs into evening. Likewise afternoon nibbles meld into dinner. There’s a moment of meal envy for Libby, who hasn’t had much time to prepare dinners before the walk. But she’s made up for it by providing generously in the cheese department, King Island blue, no less! At the end of the day, no-one will go to bed hungry.

The Not-So-Plain Plains: Part 2

It’s blissful being horizontal at last, snug in my sleeping bag. The quiet of the forest is a balm, and as sleep hovers at my door, I turn over in my bag. Suddenly my body is gripped by a series of excruciating cramps. Everywhere from groin to toe spasms, and I can barely keep from screaming. As I writhe about, swallowing my squeals, I think desperately of crawling the 50 metres to Tim and Merran’s tent to seek medical advice! 

Today’s steep, scrubby, off-track walking has caught up with me. Despite taking magnesium – a good prophylactic against cramps – my 70+ year old body is letting me know there’s still a price to pay. I sit up, pull the toes of one leg towards me, and get some relief. When I do the same with the other leg, the cramping worsens. I try relaxing, stretching, sipping water, sitting up, lying down again, breathing slowly: any and everything. But for the next several minutes nothing gives me much relief. Eventually the cramp storm passes, and I lie breathless and uneasy on my left side, not daring to turn over. I just wait, hope and pray for sleep to come.

 

And eventually I do sleep, if a bit fitfully. In the morning I manage to crawl out of the tent and walk to breakfast with relative dignity. As we sip our cuppas and exchange tales of our night, I learn that sleep has eluded others too. Tiredness is no guarantee of sleep. I share my cramping episode, hoping to persuade Tim to keep our ambitions for today’s walk “realistic”. He seems solicitous … but I’ve seen that look before. He has plans, and the best I can hope for is that I won’t be left too far behind.

[Mt Pelion East peaks out behind Tarn of Islands]

Day packs filled, our first order of business is to visit the nearby Tarn of Islands. Merran has struggled to remember its name, and we amplify the confusion by playing with its name. First it's “Lagoon of Rocks”, then “Lake of Hills”, and finally the supremely silly “Pond of Thousand Island Dressing”. The tarn rebukes our folly by being both comely and large. It not only allows glimpses of some of the mountains of the Overland Track, it also (naturally) contains several miniature islands, some topped with small pencil pines. Even its small details are fetching. 

[Small details on the shore of the tarn]

If Tim’s agenda for the day is full, it is also flexible. He first dangles before us the opportunity to visit what he calls “my forest”. He describes a small forest that he’s camped in which has all three species of Athrotaxis pines adjacent to one another. We’re intrigued enough to consent, and we’re soon walking off in its direction. But on the way there’s an unplanned surprise. I catch sight of what I suppose to be a golden, sphagnum-covered rock, maybe 100m away. But as I look more closely, the rock moves! We all stop to watch. Is it a wallaby hunched over grazing? We’ve seen golden wallabies in the highlands before. When it moves to where we have a clearer view, we can see it’s a large golden wombat.

[The large golden wombat]

The day is fine and clear, though there’s a good breeze blowing across the low scrub. Fortunately it’s coming from the wombat towards us, so the animal hasn’t heard or smelled us. For some minutes s/he wombles slowly in our direction, grazing and picking at bits of grass among the coral fern. We watch entranced, photographing, videoing and exchanging quiet expressions of awe. None of us has seen a wombat as blonde as this. Were it a lion, we would undoubtedly describe it as golden. It moves within a few metres of us before I inadvertently knock my camera against its case. The small sound startles the wombat, and it gallops away from us. It’s hard to believe that a 30kg barrel-shaped, low-slung quadruped would be capable of such speed, but they have been clocked at over 40km/h; only a little slower than Usain Bolt! Our quiet bubble burst, we laugh and babble about this amazing sighting.

[Inside Tim's forest]

And now Tim must feel that “his” forest can only be a let-down. It isn’t. Although it’s younger and much smaller that our “home” forest, it is instantly appealing. For a start it has that rare combination of all three pine species – pencil pine, King Billy pine, and laxifolia (a hybrid of the other two) – immediately adjacent to each other. It also has some impressive “Grandma” myrtles, very old Nothofagus cunninghamii that reach high into the forest canopy. They also beautifully exhibit what is known as canopy shyness. Such trees, often of the same species, leave a continuous gap or channel between each other’s outermost leaves. It reminds me of that almost electric shyness I felt when I first wanted to hold a girl’s hand. 

[Canopy shyness in myrtle trees - photo by Libby]

The reasons for this botanical shyness are probably multiple, including to reduce mechanical pruning of each other when wind moves the branches, and to limit the spread of leaf eating invertebrates. But trees are as mysterious as they are remarkable, and the more we study them, the more questions we have.

 

It’s now lunchtime, and we find another reason Tim is so fond of this forest. At its grassy edge we sit in the sun, sheltered from the keen breeze, and look out over the plains. The humps and bumps of the foregeround are covered in scoparia, sphagnum and dozens of other hardy, low-growing plant species. We know the weather is not always as benign as it is today. In the distance, in the lee of small hills, we see pockets of gum trees and pencil pines. Tim spreads his arms towards the wide horizon, and assures us he’s never seen another soul out here. We tease back: “Not even one of the 0.5%?”

 

After lunch we continue our slow wander back, though Tim being our leader, there’s a diversion first. He takes us further west to where he had earlier found what he thought was the original boundary marker of the Cradle Mountain-Lake St Clair National Park. We find a large rock cairn on a knoll overlooking the Forth River valley, some 600m below us. We pause and salute those who surveyed and ultimately protected this wild country.

[Tim and the boundary marker]

[Lake Rosa]

And then we actually start walking homeward, first via Lake Rosa, a shallow lake dotted with water lillies, then down a long, wide valley through knee-high scrub to the unnamed lake we’d paused at on our outward journey. Ultimately we complete a nearly 12km long figure 8, and return to our forest camp early in the afternoon. It has been a marvellous day of off-track walking, but I’m not ashamed to say that the lure of an afternoon nap soon takes me tentward.