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.