Clouds From Both Sides: Part 2

This was NOT expected. We’d gone to our tents early as the dark and cold seeped into our bones. Even in the dim light we could see that the fog was thickening. No stars, no heavenly lights of any sort, just a Conan Doyle-worthy fog. But as I began drifting off to sleep: the sound of rain. Surely not? My suddenly-awake brain got whirring. No, it wasn’t rain. Rather, the fog had become so thick and the temperature so low, that the moisture was condensing in the tree tops, and dropping off as the laden branches drooped. The spattering on my tent was just a credible simulation of rain.

 

I enjoy rain on a tent, up to a point. And it made sense that here in a rainforest, right next to a lake, there would be moisture. If not rain, then fog. But … but … but ... I wanted to bargain with the weather gods. The forecast was for fine, clear weather. Now I glumly had to consider the prospect of spending three days inside a cloud. That would literally put a dampener on things! 

Buttongrass, cloud and south-west mountains

Despite these gloomy thoughts, the continuous plop of water on the tent, and the growing cold, I slept well. And as light slowly crept into our forest, birds calling from the treetops – crescent honeyeaters, thornbills, scrubtits and more – turned my gloom to gladness. Such a happy morning sound. I wriggled out of my sleeping bag, and stepped out into a fresh morning. Instinctively I looked up. What?! No fog! No cloud! And even the beginnings of blue sky above. 

 

Ecstatic, I reached back into my tent, grabbed my camera, and hurried down to the lake shore. And the decades peeled away. There, just as I remembered it, was that stunning view across Lake Judd to the steepling Eliza Plateau. I’d first seen this in photographs during my university studies, an illustration of a glacial headwall (the cliffs) and a deeply-gouged glacial lake (Lake Judd). Now, on this morning, I was actually in this scene, a latter-day witness to the actions of immense forces.

Campsite view of Lake Judd and the Eliza Plateau

Larry and Libby soon joined me, and I was finally able to share the wonder of this place. We all stood in awe for some time, watching as wisps of fog drifted across the lake; snapping more and more photos. Finally, and reluctantly, we left to get on with the mundane task of preparing breakfast. We had some walking to do, above the clouds, if they dared to return.

 

Our destination was vague. I simply told the others we should check out Schnells Ridge, a range of small mountains, or perhaps large hills, on the southern side of the Anne River valley. From our starting point, it was untracked. Larry, a keen user of GPS, and a fan of off-track walking, pointed out a potential way onto the range. On his map there was only a thin band of scrub to cross before we could start ascending the clearer buttongrass onto the range. We shrugged a “why not”, and set off across a boggy patch of buttongrass. 

 

At the creek, as expected, the scrub thickened, and we had to barge our way through some resistant banksia and bauera. Crossing the creek itself involved some minor acrobatics, at which I failed, resulting in a soaking wet left boot. After that, as scrub tends to do, we were pushed further right than the GPS said we should go. And then a sudden moment of mirth. There in front of us was a track: actually, the main Lake Judd Track down the Anne valley. We laughed at our unnecessary detour, re-examined our maps, and decided to climb the range further west.

 

Fifteen minutes later, we left the track at a higher point, where it bent closer to Schnells Ridge. From there our route went upwards, steeply, but through mostly easy scrub. As we climbed, we could see that the valley beneath still had plenty of fog, thicker in the west than near Lake Judd. Everywhere mountains stood tall above the fog, the latter mimicking the ice that would have filled these valleys 15 to 20,000 years ago. I had a sudden dizzy feeling as I considered that Tasmania’s Aboriginal people, the Palawa, were here among those vast fields of ice, and had lived here long before the ice arrived. 

 

Above the cloud on Schnells Ridge

The past work of glaciers on Schnells Ridge soon became evident. A steep ridge that stood across our climb was obviously a lateral moraine; the rocks and other debris pushed to the side by a glacier. As we reached the top of the moraine, the sky above us was a deep, almost-summer blue. There was hardly a breath of wind – the forecasters had got that right. It was a glorious day to be in this precious wilderness. 

Larry and Libby atop a lateral moraine

Together we surveyed the way ahead. It initially involved a descent into some scrubby-looking bush, followed by another climb. This yo-yoing went on for a time as we walked perpendicular to the path of the former glaciers. Finally, we saw ahead of us a ridge leading to a potentially good vantage point. It was up on another lateral moraine, above the aptly-named Moraine Tarn. We aimed for a lunch stop there.

On Schnells Ridge, looking towards Lake Judd and Eliza Plateau

As we climbed onto that ridge, we suddenly heard the budda budda of a helicopter. We initially thought it might be a search and rescue flight coming from the Anne Range. But as the chopper came into view, we saw it had different markings. It flew quite low over us, and the pilot gave us a friendly wave, then continued towards the south-west. We kept climbing along the scrubby ridge before finally reaching a great stopping point around the 900m mark. 

At our lunch-stop above Moraine Tarn

There we enjoyed breathtaking views over the tarn, and up to the impressive flanks of upper Schnells Ridge, nearly 200m above us. But just as we finished our lunch, the chopper returned. And this time it didn’t just fly low near us, it slowed, hovered, then landed on the ridge less than 100m from us. A man wearing hi-vis climbed out, grabbed a backpack from the cargo basket, and gave the pilot the thumbs up. The chopper lifted off, and the man walked towards us.

 

A surprise visitor at lunchtime

“Hi-Vis man” was a Parks and Wildlife Service employee, landing to check on our movements because they were about to start a planned burn nearby. The last thing they wanted was for some walkers to be caught up in a conflagration. We told him our intentions and gave him our Garmin Inreach contact details in case they needed to speak to us again. And then, a little reluctantly, we started descending from Schnells Ridge. If we’d had more daylight, and if the burn hadn’t been imminent, I suspect we’d have tried going higher up the ridge. There’s always a next time.

 

We took a different and quite steep route back towards Lake Judd, still off-track. We had some disconcerting moments as, despite the steep slope, the ground was sodden, and patches of slimy algal growth made the going very slippery. At one point that delivered me a sudden wet bottom and a slight loss of dignity: a small price to pay for being in such amazing country.

Descending towards the Anne River and Lake Judd

Back at the bridge over the Anne River, we found the helicopter and crew busy getting things ready for the burn. One of the Parks staff recognized me, and came over for a chat. It’s nearly 11 years since I retired from Parks, but I still know a few staff members, and I remembered him well. After catching up on personal stuff, I couldn’t help asking him how things were going in Tasmania’s premier land management and conservation agency. The answer was neither pleasing nor surprising: this government, like most governments, has little appreciation of natural values and conserving our precious natural environment, unless it can see ways to make dollars out of it. The Parks and Wildlife Service is chronically under-funded, under-staffed and under-appreciated. This political mismatch was just one of the reasons I retired early from the Service. Back then, when faced with bone-headed political decisions, we used a faux Latin motto to keep us focused on the main thing: Nil illegitimum carborundum. I left my former colleague with these words … (and I’ll leave it to you to translate!)

Firefighting helicopter bucketing water, Lake Judd

 

Back at our “peaceful” lake, we spent the next while watching and listening to the helicopter as it flew repeated missions to gather water from Lake Judd, using a bucket dangled beneath. After each collection, the chopper flew the short trip back to the burn site, dropping water along the track side. This was to prevent fire damaging that infrastructure.

 

Once their flights finished, the quiet returned to our lakeside camp; the silence a profound contrast. We sat watching the sun slide slowly west down the flank of the mountains, sipping soup while we solved the world’s problems. And then we fell silent, and let the wilderness quietly solve ours.

Clouds From Both Sides: Part 1

Clouds From Both Sides: Part 1

 

I've looked at clouds from both sides now
From up and down, and still somehow
It's cloud illusions, I recall
I really don't know clouds at all – Joni Mitchell

Buttongrass and lowering cloud

 

Cloud was the last thing on our minds. All the forecasts were favourable: clear, sunny, no precipitation. It was the dream of the retired bushwalker. A working day for others perhaps, but for three of us it was a forecast made for walking! 

 

The trip had been a long time coming. The so-called Summer of 2025/26 had basically been a no-show. As if the unfavourable weather hadn’t been enough, social busy-ness and companionly health issues had stymied most walks. My boots had largely remained un-muddied, though my spirit was straining at the leash. Autumn would be better, surely? 

 

The answer came in the form of some huge blocking high pressure systems. One lingered over the Tasman Sea from late April into May, bringing fine weather and record high temperatures to Tasmania. It was the summer we thought we’d missed. When another high came a week later, my leash finally snapped! Three of us hastily organised a trip, and got packing.

 

* * *

 

It’s Monday morning, and we’re driving west from Hobart, heading for the wilderness. The smiles on our faces are real, even if the wind in our hair is metaphorical. There’s little or no wind forecast.  Bushwalking in the Tasmanian Wilderness in May, in calm, sunny weather? Surely, it’s a dream? But then dreams are sometimes associated with sleeping on clouds. 

 

As we drive through New Norfolk, past Mount Field, and on towards Southwest National Park, we discover one of western Tasmania’s little meteorological secrets. High pressure, high humidity and no wind equals low cloud. As we descend towards Lake Pedder, the mountains are obscured by cloud. The queen of the south-west, Mount Anne, is nowhere to be seen; the valleys are fog-bound, and there’s no sign of the sun. Still, our hopes remain high: at least it’s not raining.

 

Three at the start of the Lake Judd Track

Neither Libby nor Larry has walked in this part of the south-west before, and my last trip to Lake Judd and the surrounding hills was many years ago. Since then, back in 2019, a huge fire wiped out a lot of the track, and severely impacted some of the park’s vegetation. Happily, the track has now been rebuilt, so as we wind our way around the buttongrass-clad hills, it feels like a totally new walk. 

On the track looking back to Lake Pedder

 

Other things are much as they’ve always been here. The silence is profound, broken only by the jip of crescent honey-eaters; the claxon call of currawongs; the crunch of boots on the distinctively white and pink quartzite of the track. And what’s that green bird that Libby points out fluttering low across the track? It’s a Ground Parrot (Pezoporus wallicus), blending in with the vegetation so well that I barely know where to aim my camera. These masters of camouflage feed and breed in the low-growing tussocks, and rarely move far from that territory. As we walk on, it keeps up its furtive low flight before landing and scuttling under a low bush to hide.

 

Spot the Ground Parrot (click to enlarge)

As we get into our stride, I’m finding the new track very amenable, with its mix of constructed steps and gravel on the slopes, and parallel planking on the flatter, wetter ground. But I’m also finding that the other two are easily outpacing me, at risk of disappearing into the mist that hangs low. Libby has been training for a long-distance run, and Larry, despite recovering from a cold, is simply fitter than me. But after we stop for a lunch break half-way to our destination, they kindly agree to match their pace to mine. 

Libby and Larry getting ahead of me

 

The new track continues to ease us towards the lake, but a couple of kilometres from our destination, the newness end. Suddenly we step back a couple of decades, back to when the names Judd and mud were closely associated. We slop through some good old-fashioned sludge; brush through stubborn banksia bushes; stumble over slippery tree roots; stretch towards mud-covered rocks, often missing them. Eventually we emerge from this section, and find more boardwalk. This leads us to a track junction … and a difficult memory for me, which I share with the others. 

 

In my 30s I’d come here with a large group. We’d split into two parties on the way to Mount Sarah Jane, and one walker had found herself behind the lead group, but ahead of the following bunch. She turned left, towards Lake Judd, instead of right towards Sarah Jane. When we realised what had happened, her brother and I went back to Lake Judd to search for her.

Your blogger (not lost) in a rainforest - photo by Libby

We found her at the lake, and she was quite distraught. After giving her sympathy and snacks, we quickly headed off to rejoin the others, who were now an hour or two ahead of us. In our rush, we ourselves took a wrong turn, and ended up hopelessly off track and scrub bound in some of the area’s notoriously dense vegetation. For more than 3 hours we bush-bashed steeply uphill through unrelenting scrub, finally emerging – utterly exhausted – as darkness fell. On the dodgiest of slopes, the three of us squeezed into a 2-person tent and tried to sleep. But our trials weren’t over yet. A few hours before dawn a strong cold front smashed into us, almost tearing our tent down. We hurriedly packed up by torchlight, and stumbled uphill in the dark wind and rain, until we at last found the rest of our group. That uphill slog remains one of the worst experiences of my long walking career. Error compounding error, meets south-west scrub and wild weather.

 

But the past is the past. Today we intend to take that left turn towards Lake Judd. I tell the others the track will become rooty once we enter rainforest, which it duly does. It’s only just gone 3pm, but it’s so dark in the forest that it feels as though someone has turned out the lights. Pink climbing heath shine bright in the gloom.

Climbing Heath in the rainforest

There’s a final sting in the tail: a steep and rooty climb through sodden forest. It feels like a mini version of Moss Ridge on the way into Federation Peak. As we scramble upwards, Larry and Libby are breezily discussing the mindset of endurance athletes, and how they always manage to find that extra 10%. Me? I’m all out of percentages, struggling for breath while muttering under it “Where’s the bl**dy campsite?”

 

Our disparate mindsets soon reunite as we start to glimpse water through the trees. Libby momentarily mistakes it for more cloud, but the mini ripples on the otherwise still lake give it away. We dump our packs, then find some suitable tent-sites beneath the trees, before I suggest we check out the view from the water’s edge. I've told the others that it’s one of the most stunning views from any campsite in the state. The huge Eliza Plateau rises abruptly above the far shore of the large and stunning lake. But from the shore we see none of this. Cloud has settled low over the lake. It’s beautiful in its misty, tranquil way, but surely the others must think I’ve oversold it. 

 

Only time will tell, if the clouds decide to cooperate. Meanwhile aesthetic matters give way to practicality. We set our tents up, and get our food prep underway. It’s been a good day, a promising start to our walk. More than that: it's simply wonderful to be out here, clouds or not.