tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-52682364519615899162024-03-17T18:26:41.776+11:00Nature ScribeNature is home, even if we live in cities. I'm a Tasmanian-based writer who loves learning and writing about the natural world, from the smallest bugs to the broadest landscapes.
That passion led me to co-found the Wildcare Tasmania Nature Writing Prize, and to write the book "Habitat Garden". I also write a quarterly column, "The Patch", for 40 South magazine.
© All material in this blog copyright Peter Grant (unless otherwise stated)Nature Scribehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12727570990616097487noreply@blogger.comBlogger389125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5268236451961589916.post-89805766786832422152023-12-19T16:45:00.000+11:002023-12-19T16:45:17.232+11:00Back to the Land of a Thousand Lakes 3<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjs1QHA4WgMaBqEShcvSOAwDuwTYN7q1UtDCwlsVlQcZWIfm21i_kXiTDAHUcEj_OqCMVDV_112f7tFgWj-1qkPGb35U_SjFBTwURs2A7HZLQTSDICzUP4pBru8E6uIaWxcvkZw8bQ3vLSEEaEVo2KtlFjKveUaqrZFMFjiiEGR0PybGgkjWVZ8VOQKHdY/s6240/Gloomy%20Silver%20Lk1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4160" data-original-width="6240" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjs1QHA4WgMaBqEShcvSOAwDuwTYN7q1UtDCwlsVlQcZWIfm21i_kXiTDAHUcEj_OqCMVDV_112f7tFgWj-1qkPGb35U_SjFBTwURs2A7HZLQTSDICzUP4pBru8E6uIaWxcvkZw8bQ3vLSEEaEVo2KtlFjKveUaqrZFMFjiiEGR0PybGgkjWVZ8VOQKHdY/w400-h266/Gloomy%20Silver%20Lk1.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /><span style="color: #38761d;"><i>[A grey early evening over Silver Lake]<br /></i></span></td></tr></tbody></table></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-style: normal;">As grey afternoon graded into grey evening, we sat around the Silver </span><span style="font-family: arial;">Lake </span><span style="font-family: arial;">campsite comparing notes on our post-lunch walks. Libby hadn’t found the reputed </span><i style="font-family: arial;">Shangri-la</i><span style="font-family: arial;"> campsite near Lake Ah Chees. But she, Tim D and Merran had nonetheless enjoyed their peregrinations. Afterwards they too had gone on to Lakes Sonja and Solveig, but had crossed the Pine River well before we had. This alone, we retirees argued, explained why they’d almost caught us by the end of the day.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">One thing we did agree on was how grateful we were that the forecast rain dump had held off for our first two days. The more usual Roaring Forties winds had been supplanted by a deep low pressure system east of Bass Strait. That had been flooding southern Victoria, and threatened to do the same to northern Tasmania. Looking in that direction now we could see dark clouds lowering over the peaks of the Walls. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7g0JepZyrYk47sbV2Fx4zpzn6TNUhb5fD_CyiUop8CZpNYjmlEHuf5LXZZPSOACSSbYLszU-okt2QHJ8rZDuxG-QkFtUzrE15I82QuizvPrRH_Mk8ftfQg7fUmVyjmdxyu6Wv4e1gIPyrMfR9suqiv5WOelC6Ry9i2-kBZvHulmVWJUjoSSCqRlx_Ipo/s6240/Gloomy%20Silver%20Lk2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4160" data-original-width="6240" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7g0JepZyrYk47sbV2Fx4zpzn6TNUhb5fD_CyiUop8CZpNYjmlEHuf5LXZZPSOACSSbYLszU-okt2QHJ8rZDuxG-QkFtUzrE15I82QuizvPrRH_Mk8ftfQg7fUmVyjmdxyu6Wv4e1gIPyrMfR9suqiv5WOelC6Ry9i2-kBZvHulmVWJUjoSSCqRlx_Ipo/w400-h266/Gloomy%20Silver%20Lk2.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /><span style="color: #38761d;"><span style="caret-color: rgb(56, 118, 29);"><i>[Threatening clouds above the campsite]</i></span></span></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Above us large cumulus clouds began piling up. Would tonight bring the end of our weather luck? It might, but dinner and a round of Yaniv (cards) were more of a certainty. So we relaxed and enjoyed this special time in a special place. And in the end, for all that the clouds blustered and shook their fists at us, they delivered nothing overnight. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgutcwiOSZrWHBo-gCWOz9a6jmoK83OjP3v32z_LXluzmXwKvv5ES-OTrrR4OS_RRL_o-i8gu9tl_CjkJ059Bg9zu6FJ7UjU8NCWyHSzezTdBxAcwDxpIHxH_aJ5LawIntFIrhsKmloMb8Tn7UzGEfkZJol-Yl78VQmkLClkXJxOgPLLkkMEXAqNcuxIzw/s6240/Yaniv.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4160" data-original-width="6240" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgutcwiOSZrWHBo-gCWOz9a6jmoK83OjP3v32z_LXluzmXwKvv5ES-OTrrR4OS_RRL_o-i8gu9tl_CjkJ059Bg9zu6FJ7UjU8NCWyHSzezTdBxAcwDxpIHxH_aJ5LawIntFIrhsKmloMb8Tn7UzGEfkZJol-Yl78VQmkLClkXJxOgPLLkkMEXAqNcuxIzw/w400-h266/Yaniv.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /><span style="color: #38761d;"><i>[Tim D (centre) explains Yaniv to Libby and TimO]<br /><br /></i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: medium;">After another peaceful sleep, we were up early. Our plans for the day were vague, but we wanted to walk back uphill before the day grew too warm. I wasn’t at all keen to face the scrubby ascent from Lake Antimony. It had felt hard enough descending through it on the first day. But as sometimes happens, the difficulties were as much imagined as real. With fresh legs and a lighter pack, we were soon through the worst of the scrub. </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Partway up the hill we took a good break at Theresa Lagoon, and TimO and I wandered around the shore for a while. Pencil Pines were part of the lure. I always enjoy their company, but we also wanted to see whether this large lake might be a future camping destination. After we’d sussed out a couple of good looking sites, we rejoined the group and quickly fuelled up on nuts and water. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjktO40vTxLWoQ2kHt_gyhZ9v9zbax7sZqT4nAatKq60LJGcbukfZ0swgmSbcGTHNQBNQkbWRQAAz0uB9EvyR9E9-Zm6OW8PRqh3vTQVzfSg-3FVVN8kjhyphenhyphenbcqJ6M6bI2RraaW1MTL340a9iHCXaQGs9ixoLHLNrAUjSlhqCRzeNP_P9QxpT_JUxayV6J0/s6240/Theresa%20Lagoon.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="font-family: -webkit-standard; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4160" data-original-width="6240" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjktO40vTxLWoQ2kHt_gyhZ9v9zbax7sZqT4nAatKq60LJGcbukfZ0swgmSbcGTHNQBNQkbWRQAAz0uB9EvyR9E9-Zm6OW8PRqh3vTQVzfSg-3FVVN8kjhyphenhyphenbcqJ6M6bI2RraaW1MTL340a9iHCXaQGs9ixoLHLNrAUjSlhqCRzeNP_P9QxpT_JUxayV6J0/w400-h266/Theresa%20Lagoon.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /><span style="color: #38761d;"><i>[TimO checks out Theresa Lagoon]</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Once we were back at the more defined Lake Fanny Track, we had decisions to make. The wind had freshened from the north, and was now quite cool. Some of us had grand plans of more lake discovery in the afternoon. But the first order of business was to find a campsite sheltered from this wind. After that we’d set up tents and have lunch. Then we could better consider the afternoon’s options. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">From the track junction we looked out to a chain of lakes only a kilometre or so to our north-west. The three Talleh Lagoons run almost north-south, and looked as though they’d have some sheltered sites. We pushed downhill, through bush that thickened as we neared the lakes. We looked first at the middle lagoon, but the only flattish bit of shoreline was wide open to the wind. So we moved on to the southern-most lagoon, where we found a shelf some distance above the lake that looked quite sheltered. Some looked happy to stop there, but I was in fussy mode. Why camp quite near a lake when you can camp right on the lake shore? <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">That, of course, required there to be such a site, and that it be sheltered. So a few of us dumped packs and walked along the western shore of the lake in search of this “Goldilocks” site. We poked around for 15 minutes or so, and were about to give up when I suggested we look just a little further, the other side of some big boulders. Perhaps they were the Three Bears, because just beyond them was a campsite which Goldilocks would surely have appreciated: sheltered, absolute waterfront, great views, plenty of room for our tents. We only had to mention to Merran that it was also great for swimming, and she was on board.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9NRKrTL8FenhD_wWHWE6fB6_xnY_zzdI4FgUI_tAR8VaEWIITi-2aNddYYbY6gDZhhm7_vKqziHh84LkSD9mdw9fzHEYghTobuR0aKeDuVq2VG6BI444T6YQUlWv8K_RzktAliZpw4Z8Ki9LyhKieWrz6b8BUB2Lt0cVxxyGwiw9293KQvalSfj6puoQ/s6240/Talleh%20Lagoon.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="font-family: -webkit-standard; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4160" data-original-width="6240" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9NRKrTL8FenhD_wWHWE6fB6_xnY_zzdI4FgUI_tAR8VaEWIITi-2aNddYYbY6gDZhhm7_vKqziHh84LkSD9mdw9fzHEYghTobuR0aKeDuVq2VG6BI444T6YQUlWv8K_RzktAliZpw4Z8Ki9LyhKieWrz6b8BUB2Lt0cVxxyGwiw9293KQvalSfj6puoQ/w400-h266/Talleh%20Lagoon.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /><span style="color: #38761d;"><i>[Waterfront camping at Talleh Lagoon]</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Then, as we set up, something strange came over the group. All talk of going off in search of more lakes in the afternoon dissolved. Suddenly the prospect of having a lazy afternoon at the Goldilocks site had universal appeal. This was music to Jim’s ears. He had already planned just this, and was both surprised and delighted not to be the only one. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWxEYEXisnjM6SAu0Jxmypxy_L1GKm-BvVhjmVa90doBQVHmNU_MQ7-KkRFbunHfLZh-Rz4GJ3JIL6guP6CNsL3S3fSxG6Ntw1wc8EmgDh-flONorGHZIfs2alik9Zljf6R6AeZhP3DL7KTwgKbcO-id-zRffK1Wkwiqw1Qteo1JfacBa0IknksYYvQDE/s5959/Swim%20at%20Talleh.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3973" data-original-width="5959" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWxEYEXisnjM6SAu0Jxmypxy_L1GKm-BvVhjmVa90doBQVHmNU_MQ7-KkRFbunHfLZh-Rz4GJ3JIL6guP6CNsL3S3fSxG6Ntw1wc8EmgDh-flONorGHZIfs2alik9Zljf6R6AeZhP3DL7KTwgKbcO-id-zRffK1Wkwiqw1Qteo1JfacBa0IknksYYvQDE/w400-h266/Swim%20at%20Talleh.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /><span style="color: #38761d;"><i>[TimO swims at Talleh Lagoon]<br /></i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">After lunch three of us had a swim in the lake: or in my case a quick and very refreshing dip. And then the rain came, sending some to their tents, and others to the excellent shelter of Tim D’s excellent tarp. It rained, solidly at times, for about an hour, but then cleared to a pleasant if coolish afternoon.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkMpyLnRAlFOc-xTmFzEyflsWYQpjpxAByhoCtsexTf8znGDNZ9GTSWcT28jgOnWPh0nz5DND-Ed2AshkyMfxJoaoemPoxGnw-ZsAaWySB9CFLUCvFo5uU5qJp0Ca2431b8kOON-49vPXTUcpXw7XO0MAmYFbOMWwGiFLQobr_sI9F__W6GrBbEOQzOdQ/s6420/Campsite%20Talleh.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="font-family: -webkit-standard; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4280" data-original-width="6420" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkMpyLnRAlFOc-xTmFzEyflsWYQpjpxAByhoCtsexTf8znGDNZ9GTSWcT28jgOnWPh0nz5DND-Ed2AshkyMfxJoaoemPoxGnw-ZsAaWySB9CFLUCvFo5uU5qJp0Ca2431b8kOON-49vPXTUcpXw7XO0MAmYFbOMWwGiFLQobr_sI9F__W6GrBbEOQzOdQ/w400-h266/Campsite%20Talleh.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /><span style="color: #38761d;"><i>[The great tarp setup at Talleh Lagoon]</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Over dinner there was a spillover of gratitude for three good days of wandering among fine lakes with fine people, and in (mostly) fine weather. While some might say this was aided by a final splash of wine and liqueur, supplemented with chocolate, we had genuinely enjoyed what had been a soul filling walk. Then, as we chatted about the shape of our final day, Jim’s sparked up. We’d get going early, he insisted, estimating it would be 3½ to 4 four hours back to the cars. We had to make sure we were out in time to get to our lunch booking at the Great Lake Hotel. It seemed his beer goggles were firmly in place.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgt5tOxHKkcRi5ZYZBMC0NbzwE36vx9aDwO8p0yd4hi5ji7Z8z8x26eoXtd2whcgsr1s1cYeYKvOYNHlUDeESLSsBeh_vTre36liC8sxRo0BfbsHGlCr1h3g2Bf7BXYPnIVV4H-qp4Ldg1UPCQ7Xvg-54B_3ytPcUJFbK7GpGuiQC5E42rblY6VUBtdli8/s4032/water%20lilies.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="font-family: -webkit-standard; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgt5tOxHKkcRi5ZYZBMC0NbzwE36vx9aDwO8p0yd4hi5ji7Z8z8x26eoXtd2whcgsr1s1cYeYKvOYNHlUDeESLSsBeh_vTre36liC8sxRo0BfbsHGlCr1h3g2Bf7BXYPnIVV4H-qp4Ldg1UPCQ7Xvg-54B_3ytPcUJFbK7GpGuiQC5E42rblY6VUBtdli8/w480-h640/water%20lilies.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /><span style="color: #38761d;"><i>[Water lilies in a Central Plateau pond]</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">And so, after a Goldilock’s-appropriate breakfast of porridge, we packed up for the final time and left our lovely campsite. It’s fair to say Jim hadn’t always been the fastest walker on this trip. But now he took off like a young colt sniffing green grass. For the last few years Jim had been talking down the scope of his future bushwalking. We’d heard often of his preference for comfy huts and short days. And more than once, as he slumped down after a hard bit of walking, we’d heard him mutter things like “this is my last bl**dy walk”. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRPEWKiRDgsJQByOFTCbJNmxOYcGk_iKbYYEXXXjpwG4PagU4DDAszuyxVnlvidIEG8vyRLMTOgT8fR7AqbKL2PBvSM2A6LUNk44ZTlu4yTFZcbDJ-pfzNMq4cIniPlvNwAfPJw66sF1O7n0HVKqKMYi_vl9Dak1uM0a0SBGFfszBn4-RNSx9ZGdqz59w/s6240/Watery%20Sun.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="6240" data-original-width="4160" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRPEWKiRDgsJQByOFTCbJNmxOYcGk_iKbYYEXXXjpwG4PagU4DDAszuyxVnlvidIEG8vyRLMTOgT8fR7AqbKL2PBvSM2A6LUNk44ZTlu4yTFZcbDJ-pfzNMq4cIniPlvNwAfPJw66sF1O7n0HVKqKMYi_vl9Dak1uM0a0SBGFfszBn4-RNSx9ZGdqz59w/w426-h640/Watery%20Sun.jpg" width="426" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /><span style="color: #38761d;"><i>[A watery sun on our final day]</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: center; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">I’ve never been fully convinced, since I kept seeing contradictory signs. Our “hut man”, for instance, had just invested in a new tent. Plus on every walk he’d maintained his gear freak status via a “reveal” of some new purchase or other. And now here he was streaking ahead of us on our final day’s walk. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5ZleeVdvEj0YjO5hA4ooLSYGr-I7LXfhIiWVGAAuoAsxDOvB-WrMuXVnYCEqcqyjGksoHdhvIkYmjbRodXtLzweUgtRKAs3G6jZk-IJOsz4p4-c2AInw0q_49ScqIACnFaAwY7v-qCt-mXV2qOmILpiDbBw61Y68nKXJfJoiDDaxnt8jcwKxoUzwSyTg/s6240/Jim%20in%20Front.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="font-family: -webkit-standard; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4160" data-original-width="6240" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5ZleeVdvEj0YjO5hA4ooLSYGr-I7LXfhIiWVGAAuoAsxDOvB-WrMuXVnYCEqcqyjGksoHdhvIkYmjbRodXtLzweUgtRKAs3G6jZk-IJOsz4p4-c2AInw0q_49ScqIACnFaAwY7v-qCt-mXV2qOmILpiDbBw61Y68nKXJfJoiDDaxnt8jcwKxoUzwSyTg/w400-h266/Jim%20in%20Front.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /><span style="color: #38761d;"><i>[The last we see of Jim until the end of the walk]</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"> </span></o:p></p><p><style class="WebKit-mso-list-quirks-style">
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</style></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">We never actually got close to catching Jim, who walked out in a mere 2½ hours. He argued that it was too cold to stop, with a biting wind whipping up water from the lakes as we passed by. The rest of us still needed to stop for water and some food. So, was Jim’s speedy walk out simply that of a “horse headed for home”? I’m not so sure. I think it may also be that there’s life in the old dog yet! </span><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>Nature Scribehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12727570990616097487noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5268236451961589916.post-50765529347635754012023-12-16T16:59:00.003+11:002023-12-18T13:37:49.293+11:00Back to the Land of a Thousand Lakes 2<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: 10pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><i>S</i></span></span><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium; text-align: left;">omeone w</span><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium; text-align: left;">as </span><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium; text-align: left;">swanning about during the night. Despite fatigue and the comfort of my tent, I was awoken by strange sounds during the night. Someone, or something, was padding about our campsite making soft, high pitched hoots and toots. Ah yes! I’d seen a couple of black swans on Silver Lake at day’s end. The pair, it seems, had come ashore in the darkness to check out the invaders, or to graze. Perhaps both.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium; text-align: left;"><br /></span></div><p></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: small;"><br /></span></p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjm_tiNcT9ai8GvUf3H1J0Ik-5OacTX_zAcJVL0pBsZJNipDsDQJxlFRKCSVdMQkBUDpc825ACw0b-b417bAA-VJUNQUZNY5YQmXQUsI7FO5TESjZTiPe4IpzpFQiuTgLpa4u9GYXWC6gU5D0BjlXGF5hXHLmhdox6UzXhhT4CP_dPCHvgblrA3oC-rMEc/s3523/Swans.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2491" data-original-width="3523" height="283" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjm_tiNcT9ai8GvUf3H1J0Ik-5OacTX_zAcJVL0pBsZJNipDsDQJxlFRKCSVdMQkBUDpc825ACw0b-b417bAA-VJUNQUZNY5YQmXQUsI7FO5TESjZTiPe4IpzpFQiuTgLpa4u9GYXWC6gU5D0BjlXGF5hXHLmhdox6UzXhhT4CP_dPCHvgblrA3oC-rMEc/w400-h283/Swans.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /><span style="color: #38761d;"><i>[A mating pair of Black Swans]</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: small;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">These most elegant of birds are not great walkers, their insubstantial undercarriage and heavy body making them far more suited to their usual aquatic habitat. On land they revert to “ugly ducklings”, waddling a little clumsily, sometimes bumping into or brushing by whatever is in their way. Still, there’s so much to love about these striking black birds, with their gracefully curved necks, candy-red and white beaks, and soft, cow-brown eyes. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Europeans firmly believed swans could only be white, and that these antipodean inversions of the northern hemisphere’s mute swans were “impossible”. This illusion persisted even into the 20<sup>th</sup> century. Australia’s natural history has a way of messing with such Eurocentric notions. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Later we got to watch as the pair took off and flew a lap of the lake. With their long necks outstretched arrow-like, they flapped their broad wings forcefully, tooting softly to each other. We shared a moment of quiet rapture when they eventually glided in for a superb unison landing. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: small;"><br /></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhE-FJCtcd7AQSlso2XMhYpyHYRT4G8vBb1zjMN4VlTSQiS-4ba32WHmodp0Now3ytpjnMdw75W89MiXU4FNX_xPYHvfhJy5ZHCRR9G8pHv6WDAROOZgFMe2UOyVhyBC682O3L9J33Cy7fwy5avzEtXzy4RWhDgO86ujoM79dwU-XAhBMGqAf-uA-PT1rA/s3879/Diuris2.jpg" style="font-size: 13.333333015441895px; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2586" data-original-width="3879" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhE-FJCtcd7AQSlso2XMhYpyHYRT4G8vBb1zjMN4VlTSQiS-4ba32WHmodp0Now3ytpjnMdw75W89MiXU4FNX_xPYHvfhJy5ZHCRR9G8pHv6WDAROOZgFMe2UOyVhyBC682O3L9J33Cy7fwy5avzEtXzy4RWhDgO86ujoM79dwU-XAhBMGqAf-uA-PT1rA/w400-h266/Diuris2.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /><span style="color: #38761d;"><i>[Diuris orchids at our campsite]</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: small;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">The only other night noise – aside from a little neighbourly snoring – was a very unconvincing three minutes of “pitter” on our tents. There wasn’t enough rain to deserve the addition of a “patter”. In the morning, we started slowly. Tim D bated us about being keen to pack up and move on. He was not, and neither was anyone else. Two nights in this location was a unanimously welcome decision. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;">An earlier iteration of our walk plan had us packing up today, and walking on to Dixons Kingdom in the Walls proper. But that plan had been scuppered long ago when we realised the huge car-shuffle it would have involved. While today’s plan didn’t include a pack up, it would take us on some of that route, albeit with day packs. The walk up the Bernes Valley past Lakes Sally, Sonja and Solveig was new to everyone except Jim and me.</span><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: small;"> </span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBdM62IKpZaqXlWFDEqa3rdaaCTqAMMxadND6yeG0qd3qHn9skVEIIFstXJjKEIM8KdW_W-0wt8XFnbXbuMJPbbqUtWQ3TZiNiBmhiu6NaZPvTk__RWqIjYwV4BmSFhw2kdXEsfsKQ6JGfQlgL2UMST92qMrkH7xDMSSI96t-CX9GCN6CLEs7z8X_JS6c/s6240/Silver%20Lk%20North.jpg" style="font-size: 13.333333015441895px; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4160" data-original-width="6240" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBdM62IKpZaqXlWFDEqa3rdaaCTqAMMxadND6yeG0qd3qHn9skVEIIFstXJjKEIM8KdW_W-0wt8XFnbXbuMJPbbqUtWQ3TZiNiBmhiu6NaZPvTk__RWqIjYwV4BmSFhw2kdXEsfsKQ6JGfQlgL2UMST92qMrkH7xDMSSI96t-CX9GCN6CLEs7z8X_JS6c/w400-h266/Silver%20Lk%20North.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /><span style="color: #38761d;"><i>[At the northern end of Silver Lake]</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: small;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">We first picked our way up the western shore of Silver Lake, dodging inland through scrubby woodland when the shore was impassable. In less than an hour we’d broken out at the large grassy clearing on the north-western shore of the upper Silver Lake. This was where I’d camped previously, and where we’d originally planned to spend our first night. While its broad, well-sheltered and has plenty of tent sites, we agreed that the campsite we’d settled on had a better outlook, especially in the light winds we were experiencing. Sometimes the wisdom of ad-hoc decisions works out well. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: small;"><br /></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnywm27mZMa9lYRYbPbjQpC7OkyqHPMZhgGA6O2Nxe4RPbk6GnNKmcazxN9k1X3Oa8OP-uBWOEaGDu6vgwXLocgRMmCi226mcn0_BhuYZIs6gHRFmR3vkMYnNEz5yXD_0moz9ZrMg_GBKi7eEmvsS5mdtQF9klCxGhd1urOblRTwoX4Fp5iYqXgw8Clyo/s6088/Above%20Lk%20Sally.jpg" style="font-size: 13.333333015441895px; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4059" data-original-width="6088" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnywm27mZMa9lYRYbPbjQpC7OkyqHPMZhgGA6O2Nxe4RPbk6GnNKmcazxN9k1X3Oa8OP-uBWOEaGDu6vgwXLocgRMmCi226mcn0_BhuYZIs6gHRFmR3vkMYnNEz5yXD_0moz9ZrMg_GBKi7eEmvsS5mdtQF9klCxGhd1urOblRTwoX4Fp5iYqXgw8Clyo/w400-h266/Above%20Lk%20Sally.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /><span style="color: #38761d;"><i>[Merran looks out to Lake Sally]</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: small;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Our plan from here was to walk to Lake Sally before diverting to the intriguingly named Ah Chees Lake. The story behind it is that some friends of Archibald (Archie) Meston slipped the name past the Nomenclature Board by giving its spelling an Oriental twist. (After his death in 1951, Lake Meston was also named after the Launceston born teacher/historian/anthropologist.) Libby had heard great things about the lake, including that it had some excellent tent sites, and she was keen to see it firsthand. But to see “Archie’s” we'd have to walk up the valley to Lake Sally. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: small;"><br /></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijZyALqY6y2xok-v6wDV861LtsMjZdb6V01mvlCHAkuMFlis2CDt2-uuU4XyW8U5oeK9XZrDy84LBChRP17ZL2a7_2e3NKpH-G4hYK9yXKbgmcQt2Otoot7Q8CnD8EacvpCBnnlQkqoLSh1BiEgyULtJ3efrHPVTNe3D9IrnwRlr06lqOpexRVxMYz41g/s6240/Wildflowers%20nr%20Sally.jpg" style="font-size: 13.333333015441895px; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4160" data-original-width="6240" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijZyALqY6y2xok-v6wDV861LtsMjZdb6V01mvlCHAkuMFlis2CDt2-uuU4XyW8U5oeK9XZrDy84LBChRP17ZL2a7_2e3NKpH-G4hYK9yXKbgmcQt2Otoot7Q8CnD8EacvpCBnnlQkqoLSh1BiEgyULtJ3efrHPVTNe3D9IrnwRlr06lqOpexRVxMYz41g/w400-h266/Wildflowers%20nr%20Sally.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /><span style="color: #38761d;"><i>[Easy off-track walking through wildflowers]</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: small;"><br /></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiafJ1ECSU81JSzc0pfCKIpJtvb935nA698uQmBLGAW5qkRrBUbn4ukiOu9RsWoGtRe_8xc5zYTDxH_2mvGxt0vyNX_vaaDREhdf5pjfMSLU75kcx10NHsU5d23e6QvSrhwz27el0MqLNkKtNAUvyKYx7icF7C5tRWB84abgXHHpz8UUGZNo_ydk9uJ5fU/s6316/Cushion%20nr%20Sally.jpg" style="font-size: 13.333333015441895px; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4211" data-original-width="6316" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiafJ1ECSU81JSzc0pfCKIpJtvb935nA698uQmBLGAW5qkRrBUbn4ukiOu9RsWoGtRe_8xc5zYTDxH_2mvGxt0vyNX_vaaDREhdf5pjfMSLU75kcx10NHsU5d23e6QvSrhwz27el0MqLNkKtNAUvyKYx7icF7C5tRWB84abgXHHpz8UUGZNo_ydk9uJ5fU/w400-h266/Cushion%20nr%20Sally.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /><span style="color: #38761d;"><i>[Walking past an enormous </i><span style="caret-color: rgb(56, 118, 29);"><i>cushion plant]</i></span></span></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: small;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;">As long as we avoided boggy sections, it was a pleasant untracked wander through a plethora of wildflowers. We were staggered by some very large, old cushionplants; enchanted by some comely reed-filled pools; and occasionally spooked by fast-moving white-lipped snakes. Just before the northern end of Lake Sally we stopped for a drink and some scroggin, and to do some running repairs on blisters that had begun to trouble TimO.</span><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: small;"><br /></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7LmfNiptEttyiJJfURQkhRWReRtrwZ-Bd1bD1BrmCE1A6eP61OaQwPwqBe70RU6OMhY7Wjs6Q0bsbl10duKjLKWRaUtAGuispUNJE1mEySkJ50KYCBJPvJBKZPk5nIf5-4Jnvfe9F3wE0xVejYtd1Fo3qjzU2-DpX10mAHEKYn2dUNZNr20NCzUk1DUM/s5959/Repairs.jpg" style="font-size: 13.333333015441895px; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3973" data-original-width="5959" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7LmfNiptEttyiJJfURQkhRWReRtrwZ-Bd1bD1BrmCE1A6eP61OaQwPwqBe70RU6OMhY7Wjs6Q0bsbl10duKjLKWRaUtAGuispUNJE1mEySkJ50KYCBJPvJBKZPk5nIf5-4Jnvfe9F3wE0xVejYtd1Fo3qjzU2-DpX10mAHEKYn2dUNZNr20NCzUk1DUM/w400-h266/Repairs.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /><span style="color: #38761d;"><i>[Tim D helping with TimO's blisters]</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: small;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Then we left the Pine River and followed a creek west to Ah Chees Lake. We found a handsome, large, forest-fringed lake, the perfect place for a lunch break. Merran decided it was also perfect for a swim. She informed us it wasn’t cold, though the rest of us weren’t sufficiently convinced to join her. </span><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: small;"><br /></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgy6gT9qorkyBd6M-j0tYgd0cVmk-0dMMmgLWZDz3TM_kY73kX0be-phwOFQsRqUAjV7zE3zyl1COHqs04Ce9Bx3g8D7YLU9BW4BR3b5IxP4w3yrks1LDwWVOs4xxz0bOrikgoglCdvh2g4Lf1YgGB0ee-dxA13lwD1tagkKKT2QF_6jruWl0DwwjBCEv0/s6088/Merran%20swims.jpg" style="font-size: 13.333333015441895px; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4059" data-original-width="6088" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgy6gT9qorkyBd6M-j0tYgd0cVmk-0dMMmgLWZDz3TM_kY73kX0be-phwOFQsRqUAjV7zE3zyl1COHqs04Ce9Bx3g8D7YLU9BW4BR3b5IxP4w3yrks1LDwWVOs4xxz0bOrikgoglCdvh2g4Lf1YgGB0ee-dxA13lwD1tagkKKT2QF_6jruWl0DwwjBCEv0/w400-h266/Merran%20swims.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /><span style="color: #38761d;"><span style="caret-color: rgb(56, 118, 29);"><i>[Merran swimming in Ah Chees Lake]</i></span></span></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: small;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;">After lunch we split into two groups. Libby, Merran and Tim D were keen to explore the shores of this lake further, while Jim, TimO and I (the retirees) were happy with what we’d seen of Ah Chees. We’d complete our trek to Sonja and Solveig before returning to camp at Silver Lake. That sounded simple, and initially it was. We soon reeled in Lake Sonja, and Solveig wasn’t much further on.</span><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: small;"><br /></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicwyFd3jwgIhihebKEldEQvtE4ARTOGpSqEhV-LPi8VruuX5ReRUL1GTmwfbUjQVi4oON3T7CSEr0Qusn5aM1BxmaWfmlsBgfxThMVf1WHZfqX6R6clRGyYjd50rpO1uxJeQ2WW3PtSRYcCVDsEs95XAJVZY4BfRFwFo3iulIbLqOxeDBPwvaENKn8A5E/s6240/At%20Solveig.jpg" style="font-size: 13.333333015441895px; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4160" data-original-width="6240" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicwyFd3jwgIhihebKEldEQvtE4ARTOGpSqEhV-LPi8VruuX5ReRUL1GTmwfbUjQVi4oON3T7CSEr0Qusn5aM1BxmaWfmlsBgfxThMVf1WHZfqX6R6clRGyYjd50rpO1uxJeQ2WW3PtSRYcCVDsEs95XAJVZY4BfRFwFo3iulIbLqOxeDBPwvaENKn8A5E/w400-h266/At%20Solveig.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /><span style="color: #38761d;"><span style="caret-color: rgb(56, 118, 29);"><i>[TimO and Jim at Lake Solveig]</i></span></span></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: small;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;">But then the fun began. We wanted to return on the other side of the Pine River, which meant crossing what was a fast flowing stream. At the southern end of Sonja TimO found a crossing, and went over. But looking at it from a distance, and with the roar of a river making communication difficult, Jim decided it was too sketchy for his shorter legs. I thought it safest to stay with Jim. So we shouted that we’d stay on this side, and keep looking. We added that we should stay in visual contact. That also sounded simple, but the river had other ideas. What looked easy enough on our maps proved much more tricky. TimO had to divert east to avoid the lakeshore, while we had to meander all over the place to avoid river bends, marshes and bushy billabongs.</span><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: small;"><br /></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUxMxmz54lXfc4ADyn0cQjtopFXTZEm0geKrGx5O8zuz3XqaMCreuMTDBYA0BzwFkz5Xpbo9wb-dASnk9Lf6OCpvXIVAOyaF1CmUOhThgJv-vG__KTmLk0bKSYEmjDL-Jo7E1vFhETEEprWZNoEdDWtWJH3r0pEFH89uLOsqJfnBfqFN0aTyEXmdGLzcA/s6054/Hibbertia2.jpg" style="font-size: 13.333333015441895px; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4036" data-original-width="6054" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUxMxmz54lXfc4ADyn0cQjtopFXTZEm0geKrGx5O8zuz3XqaMCreuMTDBYA0BzwFkz5Xpbo9wb-dASnk9Lf6OCpvXIVAOyaF1CmUOhThgJv-vG__KTmLk0bKSYEmjDL-Jo7E1vFhETEEprWZNoEdDWtWJH3r0pEFH89uLOsqJfnBfqFN0aTyEXmdGLzcA/w400-h266/Hibbertia2.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /><span style="color: #38761d;"><i>[Hibbertia carpet near Pine River]</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: small;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Eventually, well south of Lake Sally, we finally came together again at a point where a crossing looked possible. TimO guided us step-by-step, but doubled the fun by filming our attempts, and adding an hilarious Olympic show-jumping-style commentary. No-one was harmed in the filming of the event, although one walker’s feet may have become damper than the other’s.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">The non-retirees, meanwhile, had completed their viewing of Ah Chees, Sonja and Solveig, and were also coming back via the western side of Pine River. In fact as we descended from some unexpected scrub near Silver Lake, we heard a shout and saw them a couple of hundred metres behind us. Not being at all competitive, we retirees called a greeting … and duly doubled our pace. We weren’t going to let those youngsters beat us back to base!<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: small;"><br /></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2NUVvv4OX40DBALgiPldNYaXXbUr-2Kp4h2huh2Chr5LQ2RcM_G7w18JhVX6HDnvCV988PHPHGwdAXg3W5eDEJQGrfx7TlHPfQyLde0aZjXMLJt8QrwmM1xhdh3dGU5FF23vZuKhrNYuW71PJVa6la7efgk3gqzLY01KM2Uxiu5KqydyYjZCX84vJOdg/s4891/Waratah2.jpg" style="font-size: 13.333333015441895px; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3261" data-original-width="4891" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2NUVvv4OX40DBALgiPldNYaXXbUr-2Kp4h2huh2Chr5LQ2RcM_G7w18JhVX6HDnvCV988PHPHGwdAXg3W5eDEJQGrfx7TlHPfQyLde0aZjXMLJt8QrwmM1xhdh3dGU5FF23vZuKhrNYuW71PJVa6la7efgk3gqzLY01KM2Uxiu5KqydyYjZCX84vJOdg/w400-h266/Waratah2.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /><span style="color: #38761d;"><i>[The waratahs were a welcome distraction while walking]</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: small;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">They didn’t either, but then they had the good excuse of needing to stop and search for Merran’s glasses, which she’d dropped somewhere near the Pine River crossing yesterday. 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</style>Nature Scribehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12727570990616097487noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5268236451961589916.post-26449117617729721852023-12-14T16:32:00.002+11:002023-12-14T16:32:23.959+11:00Back to the Land of a Thousand Lakes 1<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="font-family: arial; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBHjrOc6ei6FdJqyJynbELk2-Sfp9m0taeqkY3PA-YorjuKeUMulukiLYEYWPX1lwaqKFPhQASAVeEDu4AJ6SVoEOc6ELbGtrXykyVIZDpzNapShmecxF7p4stueNkUeIyGyDWQrV3C-8uP2TnuaAbqCyXOboujF7ZcsYifG6z1Tey2dQRhnbFiDenhmo/s5484/EmptyName.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3656" data-original-width="5484" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBHjrOc6ei6FdJqyJynbELk2-Sfp9m0taeqkY3PA-YorjuKeUMulukiLYEYWPX1lwaqKFPhQASAVeEDu4AJ6SVoEOc6ELbGtrXykyVIZDpzNapShmecxF7p4stueNkUeIyGyDWQrV3C-8uP2TnuaAbqCyXOboujF7ZcsYifG6z1Tey2dQRhnbFiDenhmo/w400-h266/EmptyName.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /><span style="color: #38761d;"><i>[Ready to leave, at last!]</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;"><br /></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;">I usually reckon type 2 fun – something that’s difficult at the time, but which turns out to be rewarding – applies well to bushwalks. But just occasionally it applies to the lead up to a walk. </span></p><style class="WebKit-mso-list-quirks-style">
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</style><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;">Organising the first bushwalk of summer with my usual walking mates was close to classic type 2 fun. That partly came down to our differing bushwalking styles and preferences. Some of us like to walk to wild places, far from the madding crowd. Some of us like a walk to be short and sweet, preferably with the comforts of a hut, and the prospect of meeting new walkers. Still others of us like the challenge of reaching a mountaintop, or finding our way through new, preferably trackless country. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;">Trying to juggle the various walk preferences; lock in the dates; settle on a venue; nail complex transport arrangements; deal with last minute changes; factor in the weather – all in the age of COVID – made the organisation of this walk more than a little fraught.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;">But then, miracle of miracles, as soon as we got to the start of the walk, the difficulties began to be eclipsed by the rewards, and the smiling began. In truth for two of us, the smiling had begun a day early. Knowing that on this walk we wouldn’t get to stay in a hut, Jim’s high-rank preference, he and I had gone up early and spent the night at the Great Lake Hotel: a very fancy "hut", by our standards.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;">Our four day jaunt was to begin not far from Great Lake. We would walk into the Central Plateau/Walls of Jerusalem area, starting from Ada Lagoon. We’d eyed off several potential lakeside camps, with Silver Lake our likely first destination. I’d walked there a few times, but not for many years. So in writing up the walk plan, I allowed six hours to get from Ada to Silver: a generous estimate, I thought.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;"><br /></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifUP-VPt61me1ntXkNOd1ln_4pZNrrBO-If2qv_mnz0piZUYO2VHZNv7TVO3aTeZQO27GeiYmerrtKqNPbYg4bUttXOY4mYI6LerGtbd1jybIQAun8bg_DXthlARFTFB7c2cXYLg8Q-tUKECezirWqp5LU1hDLH8CQEJqf3yK2XvbfnRFmRJDwNIrYRsM/s6240/EmptyName%201.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="font-family: arial; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4160" data-original-width="6240" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifUP-VPt61me1ntXkNOd1ln_4pZNrrBO-If2qv_mnz0piZUYO2VHZNv7TVO3aTeZQO27GeiYmerrtKqNPbYg4bUttXOY4mYI6LerGtbd1jybIQAun8bg_DXthlARFTFB7c2cXYLg8Q-tUKECezirWqp5LU1hDLH8CQEJqf3yK2XvbfnRFmRJDwNIrYRsM/w400-h266/EmptyName%201.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /><span style="color: #38761d;"><i>[Walking beside Ada Lagoon]</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;">We didn’t manage to start walking until after 12 noon, partly because of the tight preparation time available for the full-time workers in the group. But we kept smiling, and the weather gods smiled back at us. The forecast showers were nowhere to be seen. Instead they’d given way to a blue sky off-set by welcomingly fluffy clouds. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;">Compared to the more popular end of the Walls of Jerusalem, this walk has an unspectacular start. It’s flattish, largely treeless, and partially on an old fourwheel drive track. For us though, the lack of high peaks and deep forest was compensated for by the wide open vistas, the glittering of lakes near and far, and the stunning early summer wildflower displays. Golden pultenaea, creamy orites, red waratah were all on peak display, offset here and there by smaller, more cryptic caladenia and diuris orchids. And of course there was the company. We hadn’t all been together for many months, and there was a lot to catch up on. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;"><br /></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioUq_rSA9XJExj2DJP4WQtAM_HLUsfUNFg7ezebrX_rRQGHTifdekBH-xQQIy7BrHN9naEjruyk11zrutTwTyf3fTLf0xGpdNmuooFQRxBrwz0hdkL-pGxkcNGb4UGpP1z0Jz7koJfIuFyuJdLvRqisqF0CdhdTLQpgQwMtVQPaZb0Px3dWvhfira-m7w/s6240/EmptyName%203.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="font-family: arial; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4160" data-original-width="6240" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioUq_rSA9XJExj2DJP4WQtAM_HLUsfUNFg7ezebrX_rRQGHTifdekBH-xQQIy7BrHN9naEjruyk11zrutTwTyf3fTLf0xGpdNmuooFQRxBrwz0hdkL-pGxkcNGb4UGpP1z0Jz7koJfIuFyuJdLvRqisqF0CdhdTLQpgQwMtVQPaZb0Px3dWvhfira-m7w/w400-h266/EmptyName%203.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /><span style="color: #38761d;"><i>[Easy walking among summer wildflowers]</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;">But we had started late, and this was soon compounded by slower pace of some of us. Dare I name we retirees for this? Anyway we didn’t exactly set a cracking pace on the outward run. By the time we left the marked track and began the slow, scrubby descent towards Lake Antimony, fatigue was setting in. The intransigence of the scrub, with every second Hakea bush or banksia seemingly intent on grabbing us, exhausted us further.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;"><br /></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivW6Yk4qj6mPBQ3TztfMLz-ZQC5epz-YcOp_S8LCLImYM_dj8Ywg-X_Gdg_CTW3x0sPkiA14WXR07so8gOMnINDaakTYl0lcCmQnqDnAG2a_MqF9OT9z-I1VlNIyGmuQxel56MHd0iHGorg0J6l08N6RBKYRUIKZZ6wshlmfjuKJUks3M-sHUAJZ32AVA/s5190/EmptyName%202.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="font-family: arial; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3460" data-original-width="5190" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivW6Yk4qj6mPBQ3TztfMLz-ZQC5epz-YcOp_S8LCLImYM_dj8Ywg-X_Gdg_CTW3x0sPkiA14WXR07so8gOMnINDaakTYl0lcCmQnqDnAG2a_MqF9OT9z-I1VlNIyGmuQxel56MHd0iHGorg0J6l08N6RBKYRUIKZZ6wshlmfjuKJUks3M-sHUAJZ32AVA/w400-h266/EmptyName%202.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /><span style="color: #38761d;"><i>[Caladenia alpina orchids]</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;">Even the sight of Antimony Hut #5 did little to brighten the eyes of the hut-lovers. We gave the humble structure a perfunctory once-over, and left for the short trek over to Silver Lake. But first we had to cross the fast flowing Powena Creek. Wet feet and a less-than-desirable distance between the lead walkers and those at the tail end, didn’t improve matters. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWOrsUXT_0S4I-qJZIMMpsChSOECXiOJhEU1ds6uQAmXGebYGGyPwppwIm87yegE9AbNoMaQv4GR04tNc5rvqNM417hshRNnlYgteoedmhqCYnPWmQrNdhMk90Nzpd8Mm-FlMmntPFRxjE35D3ufJCqXb0lgQvNrJQMhmMdYH-BNS4v4b1pg-i7Qrj974/s6240/EmptyName%206.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4160" data-original-width="6240" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWOrsUXT_0S4I-qJZIMMpsChSOECXiOJhEU1ds6uQAmXGebYGGyPwppwIm87yegE9AbNoMaQv4GR04tNc5rvqNM417hshRNnlYgteoedmhqCYnPWmQrNdhMk90Nzpd8Mm-FlMmntPFRxjE35D3ufJCqXb0lgQvNrJQMhmMdYH-BNS4v4b1pg-i7Qrj974/w400-h266/EmptyName%206.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /><span style="color: #38761d;"><i>[Jim and TimO at Antimony Hut #5]</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;">Still, soon enough we saw the southernmost of the twin Silver Lakes, with a bright red tent already set up on its far shore. But by now the six of us had separated into two groups of three, and we’d lost visual contact with each other. It took an extra forty minutes for us to locate one another near the southern shore of south Silver Lake. The original plan had been to go to the northern shore of the north lake, where I knew there was plenty of space. But by now my generous six hour walk time estimate was proving regrettably accurate. So, just after 6 o’clock, we all agreed to simply get to a viable campsite and set up for the night.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;">The occupant of the red tent called out a welcome across the lake, and advised us as to where we might fit our tents. All that was left was for us to ford the Pine River and walk to the lakeside to find tent sites. Wet feet, fatigue and concern that we might crowd the solo walker were soon forgotten as Tim D showed us a goodly number of potential tent sites, all well distant from “Neighbour Dave”, as we dubbed the solo walker. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;"><br /></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilnurmIIXy5SBp-btfkuoQGNrSD-dMkspbk9aoOld0rPGXhRSj12hkaCPpN_ZqwBXNk89h-FFM_FJ78bbucytW46-OFl-rS6WLQN61K6KRd1luM3Zm7Dvu0HZohdj_-HU3fEFSOTeKNpXDkV0LH-gEKPNMZsstfIx84reUaSLrjZsKY65ye9M7QUp02RI/s6240/EmptyName%204.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="font-family: arial; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4160" data-original-width="6240" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilnurmIIXy5SBp-btfkuoQGNrSD-dMkspbk9aoOld0rPGXhRSj12hkaCPpN_ZqwBXNk89h-FFM_FJ78bbucytW46-OFl-rS6WLQN61K6KRd1luM3Zm7Dvu0HZohdj_-HU3fEFSOTeKNpXDkV0LH-gEKPNMZsstfIx84reUaSLrjZsKY65ye9M7QUp02RI/w400-h266/EmptyName%204.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /><span style="color: #38761d;"><i>[Durston and Hilleberg vie for attention at Silver Lake]</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;">Better still our neighbour was more than happy to have company. He even came over to help me set up my red tent. He’d recognised it as a variation on his own Hilleberg Akto tent (mine is the lighter weight Hilleberg Enan). I later visited his tent, and we shared fan boy enthusiasms over our well-made Swedish tents.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;"> </span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1emansEEaViMhwWtxZFFOghGLk5AYmfGkH2FPgoheI4PRy1-ZCDym8kZtF1cKxpqh1z1nsSSedx9TzUTRI8PiMZ8dmduurZmBpuW-X9x7tRTxYD0wNWoXQjvED2bPCrS_42YO5zZ-_0TX7pq8j3i-Ff3aOKVfvMeqtaFhyphenhyphenqFzah95qM5wgckDEaPRT6Q/s6240/EmptyName%205.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="font-family: arial; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4160" data-original-width="6240" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1emansEEaViMhwWtxZFFOghGLk5AYmfGkH2FPgoheI4PRy1-ZCDym8kZtF1cKxpqh1z1nsSSedx9TzUTRI8PiMZ8dmduurZmBpuW-X9x7tRTxYD0wNWoXQjvED2bPCrS_42YO5zZ-_0TX7pq8j3i-Ff3aOKVfvMeqtaFhyphenhyphenqFzah95qM5wgckDEaPRT6Q/w400-h266/EmptyName%205.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /><span style="color: #38761d;"><i>[Relaxing at the tarp set up]</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Back at our site, Jim was having his own fanboy moment, showing off his new Durston X-Mid 1 tent, which we quickly dubbed "The Hut": another attempt to console Jim for the lack of huts on this walk. Tim D had set up the next best thing, an ample 4m X 3m tarp, and we were soon gathered around it enjoying the luxury of cheese, biscuits and wine before a late dinner. We were tired from our day’s exertion, but as we stretched out, mesmerised by the views across the lake to the Walls of Jerusalem, I think we remembered to be grateful.</span><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>Nature Scribehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12727570990616097487noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5268236451961589916.post-4483148831415618192023-12-12T12:55:00.001+11:002023-12-12T12:55:39.407+11:00Going Solo<p><i></i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiu9z8gs5zyQgsFi_wA2R7NWx0CRyIijC0yEfpVMCffR_hYtrwgQgZDJMDeCmvsmNATnuSAcdSzL-9iDv5MoUtLu6eXSpV5gvC6nYsAWvTtlwDLMzarzwPCrdRJ788MXbnVaHHlR2yI80DirUNivEamwSH1sJjXU0B0yRuVbvSSM5jdVXlm3toGCLveo_4/s6240/Solo%20Track.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="font-style: italic; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4160" data-original-width="6240" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiu9z8gs5zyQgsFi_wA2R7NWx0CRyIijC0yEfpVMCffR_hYtrwgQgZDJMDeCmvsmNATnuSAcdSzL-9iDv5MoUtLu6eXSpV5gvC6nYsAWvTtlwDLMzarzwPCrdRJ788MXbnVaHHlR2yI80DirUNivEamwSH1sJjXU0B0yRuVbvSSM5jdVXlm3toGCLveo_4/w400-h266/Solo%20Track.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /><span style="color: #38761d;"><i>[Climbing towards Twilight Tarn]</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><p><i><span style="font-family: arial;">For many years my simple response to the idea of solo bushwalking was to find reasons <b>not</b> to bushwalk solo. I could name safety concerns; my preference for company; my enjoyment of sharing walking’s pleasures and pains with others. But lurking beneath those reasons was a possibility I didn’t care to acknowledge. Was I afraid of being alone with myself? </span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><i><span style="font-family: arial;">I began to see this as a spiritual challenge. Despite writing at length about the spiritual side of bushwalking, going solo was one aspect of it that I had barely experienced. It became the kind of challenge that I needed to face up to, when the time was right. But when is that? I could always find reasons not to go, burying my unwillingness beneath the busyness of life. Eventually, as the days of spring grew longer and (slightly) warmer, I decided to plan a trip. I would spend a few nights alone near Twilight Tarn in Tasmania’s Mount Field National Park. It was a place I knew, but in an area that also held some worthy challenges. So, on a clear September morning, I put my pack in my car and took off on my first multi-day solo journey. <o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;">* * *<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: arial;">For much of the first hour of the walk, my monkey mind is swinging from the trees. It’s demanding to know where all the others monkeys have gone; telling me that the strong wind is REALLY worrying; suggesting that the new lightweight pack IS going to be uncomfortable. Okay, I say, in my calmest voice, we’re not used to this. But we will be alright; all will be well. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt 36pt;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Henri Nouwen outlined the necessity of this kind of ‘gentle and persistent effort’. In “Reaching Out” he writes: <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><i><span style="font-family: arial;">'To live a spiritual life we must first find the courage to enter into the desert of our loneliness and to change it by gentle and persistent efforts into a garden of solitude. The movement from loneliness to solitude, however, is the beginning of any spiritual life because it is the movement from the restless senses to the restful spirit, from the outward-reaching cravings to the inward-reaching search, from the fearful clinging to the fearless play.'<o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><i><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></i></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgHhpm4d8PTIuULRvJlVmECjr3e_RVsX4PjGNtGpTmaIuylukOqWF9g9vGSQCYMz2ioTDTLXP-RpvunhzPWL-9thoD1xTnKX7TR7a1q46wk2QMyXwmGIbPdGIHPjXkBqf2qmGpvBkT4LZSnxiqbBdx_f_znlUW6xZOuyscIcSZyP8ktA_6KUbftym9GWc/s5861/There%20and%20Back.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="font-style: italic; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3907" data-original-width="5861" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgHhpm4d8PTIuULRvJlVmECjr3e_RVsX4PjGNtGpTmaIuylukOqWF9g9vGSQCYMz2ioTDTLXP-RpvunhzPWL-9thoD1xTnKX7TR7a1q46wk2QMyXwmGIbPdGIHPjXkBqf2qmGpvBkT4LZSnxiqbBdx_f_znlUW6xZOuyscIcSZyP8ktA_6KUbftym9GWc/w400-h266/There%20and%20Back.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /><span style="color: #38761d;"><i>[Coming or Going?]</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt 36pt;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Right now I feel a long way from fearless play. My soul is still skittish, jumping at shadows that might be snakes, or might be nothing. But I am walking, and that rhythmical movement, even the tiny clank of my metal drinking cup on my pack, helps to settle the monkey. I further distract myself by measuring my walking pace on my sports watch. I set myself the goal of walking at 4km/h, and I fail. But because I’m finding so much to stop and look at, and to photograph, it’s a noble failure. When my botanical friends, especially the buttongrass and pandani, wave their greetings, I must pay my respects.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGHWgsYHpMFzSIFTi40wF9nnTkoAvLYWjtM6ud5u0-Wzfh7P3pA5q9QFP6Vk6yk3PGD2DYljI7ygb5LS83nSuXdu9VGZkqLQXFYGs2g5F88mKfpfD85t1_D-UJ75bSBWKs6yxKjOnZm8t4tiwZcBi7X8e5jaE6NlfXcwGESXG8wXOQ6LaxDCfttSfYjNo/s6240/Buttongrass%20+%20Lk%20Webster.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="font-style: italic; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4160" data-original-width="6240" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGHWgsYHpMFzSIFTi40wF9nnTkoAvLYWjtM6ud5u0-Wzfh7P3pA5q9QFP6Vk6yk3PGD2DYljI7ygb5LS83nSuXdu9VGZkqLQXFYGs2g5F88mKfpfD85t1_D-UJ75bSBWKs6yxKjOnZm8t4tiwZcBi7X8e5jaE6NlfXcwGESXG8wXOQ6LaxDCfttSfYjNo/w400-h266/Buttongrass%20+%20Lk%20Webster.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /><span style="color: #38761d;"><i>[Buttongrass near Lake Webster]</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: arial;">I am finding a freedom in walking like this, in casting aside schedules, in not having the wishes of others dictate my speed, or lack of it. In one sense, it’s as though the years have peeled away. I’m like a child, free to follow my whims. When I was a small child I was obsessed with running water, and particularly waterfalls. My parents later told me I would coo “oooh, water!” as we drove past anything resembling a waterfall. Apparently I wasn’t always discerning, more than once taking delight in a stormwater drain emptying muddy water into a culvert.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: arial;">On the second day of my walk I climb up to Tarn Shelf to “play” with water. Tarn Shelf is a delightful chain of alpine lakes, tarns and ponds on a rocky shelf suspended between the Rodway Range and a series of lower forest-fringed lakes. As I clamber up towards the first tarn, it’s windy. But above the rush of wind on rock and scrub, I’m sure I hear the roar of running water. Just days before, Tarn Shelf had been coated with snow. Most has now melted, and the meltwater is flowing off the slopes, into then out of the lakes, and down into the valleys.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: arial;">I wander off-track, slowly making my way towards the source of the roaring. For the best part of an hour I high-step through scrub to view a series of delightful cascades coming from the outfall creek of Twisted Tarn. No-one else is there to corroborate whether or not I cry out “oooh, water!”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhN54uwvnREWawC4NQU_uUi0Ss_5jf1iRnW6Xu3hya0avZsP882jV07ZSCl4JNx71iODHXdPd_tMWAu6ZhZhUOEw-xITq_0nQsbuIQYsGDFmnM4J9MbtjyOWmCYpRJbcgPP7Jh8xKPopWfDmQVkzPf5_8dhaKZ_sBF9lB33EekFwls_V7MMQqvdPaidPvI/s6240/Cascade%20nr%20Twisted%20Tarn.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="font-style: italic; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4160" data-original-width="6240" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhN54uwvnREWawC4NQU_uUi0Ss_5jf1iRnW6Xu3hya0avZsP882jV07ZSCl4JNx71iODHXdPd_tMWAu6ZhZhUOEw-xITq_0nQsbuIQYsGDFmnM4J9MbtjyOWmCYpRJbcgPP7Jh8xKPopWfDmQVkzPf5_8dhaKZ_sBF9lB33EekFwls_V7MMQqvdPaidPvI/w400-h266/Cascade%20nr%20Twisted%20Tarn.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /><span style="color: #38761d;"><i>[Cascade below Twisted Tarn]</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Tarn Shelf holds many other memories that now rise to mind. I find that when I’m not talking and listening, memory becomes my companion. And now I start thinking of two of my bushwalking mentors, Ken and Ray. Each separately brought me up here in my early days of bushwalking in Tasmania. Ray introduced me to skiing here, and if I was never any good at it, Ray was not to blame! Ken took me a little further afield. On one winter walk we braved deep snow, explored a couple of huts, and spent a cold night in the Lake Newdegate Hut. I must have been exhausted, because I managed to fall asleep while Ken was reading a book to me. He never let me forget it!<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpPX4NCZDFz_3o3ll2hTb3slOF3MzhHhLCLPobD7lxcyrsDdBj3DCX3XtIH-S_kn7jk9Hn7qKHvxnrqOqA2b0f_JXNxUvSuu4PxB-W-PKYHbosXsQSl_g1yr0PpGAg9h4N_FdDgZUF6DAIDpE3vmv8nLtu7g2DPJalc5MKlvxKrghlRr8o82vkYgLVZt8/s6240/EmptyName%20Tarn%20Shelf%201.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="font-style: italic; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4160" data-original-width="6240" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpPX4NCZDFz_3o3ll2hTb3slOF3MzhHhLCLPobD7lxcyrsDdBj3DCX3XtIH-S_kn7jk9Hn7qKHvxnrqOqA2b0f_JXNxUvSuu4PxB-W-PKYHbosXsQSl_g1yr0PpGAg9h4N_FdDgZUF6DAIDpE3vmv8nLtu7g2DPJalc5MKlvxKrghlRr8o82vkYgLVZt8/w400-h266/EmptyName%20Tarn%20Shelf%201.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /><span style="color: #38761d;"><i>[One of the many tarns on Tarn Shelf]</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Deeper into my solo time, I start thinking on some matters that have been bothering me. That’s part of the reason I’ve come. But what am I supposed to do with what comes up? Years ago I asked Rowland Croucher, a very experienced Christian pastor and writer, what sustained him through all the ups and downs of the spiritual life. Decades later I still remember his succinct answer: ‘Externalise guilt, fear and anxiety’.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: arial;">For years I’ve placed this life practice within the context of confession, whether formal, as in the Roman Catholic tradition, in which confession is a sacrament, or informal. We all have, at some time in our lives, done wrong. Or we’ve failed to do what we knew to be right. It’s beneficial to come clean about these wrongs.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSh5eB6bwO8QLrutkbiKlLkjvdYt67e9zym-O_eTOzdEtmYhL8YxurCSffEHUCEEiG-5C6jvX6cv5-mC99wBLi_v8j-gSfROckYy4CvWwBH0hT-k-IWWp6Tep7N8giK_9Db0lt1ssJeJyq5KDwQz9nzwn-JN2zwJ1YQE2i9DVfzITbxsSpU7epG-xx67w/s6240/Twisted.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4160" data-original-width="6240" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSh5eB6bwO8QLrutkbiKlLkjvdYt67e9zym-O_eTOzdEtmYhL8YxurCSffEHUCEEiG-5C6jvX6cv5-mC99wBLi_v8j-gSfROckYy4CvWwBH0hT-k-IWWp6Tep7N8giK_9Db0lt1ssJeJyq5KDwQz9nzwn-JN2zwJ1YQE2i9DVfzITbxsSpU7epG-xx67w/w400-h266/Twisted.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /><span style="color: #38761d;"><i>[A twisted path near Twisted Tarn]</i></span><br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Similarly we all experience things that deeply trouble us, whether they are caused by known/external factors (fear), or imprecise/internal factors (anxiety). I had always taken Rowland Croucher’s advice to mean that the weight of guilt, fear and anxiety is lessened and lifted by sharing it with appropriate others. “Get it off your chest” might be an over-simplified summary. There’s much more to it than that, including the whole theology of forgiveness. But on this solo walk I’m discovering one other unexpected nuance. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Certainly I have the sense that some of these personal burdens are adding to the weight of my pack. But being on a solo walk, I have no immediate chance of confessing any of this to anyone besides God. And then comes a realisation. Perhaps taking these burdens for a walk is in itself a way of externalising them. By carrying them into the bush with me, I’m literally bringing them out in the open. Out here it’s harder to run from them, and they’ll stay with me until I do some processing. The peace and beauty of my surroundings helps this process. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: arial;">I’ve set up my small red tent beneath some yellow alpine gums and snow gums. The site is a little above Twilight Tarn, which glistens in the afternoon sun. A yellow-throated honeyeater calls confidently from the branches. At first its singular, rich “chowk” call ricochets through the trees. It follows up with a series of loud, melodious, staccato calls. Somehow its brio gives me confidence, and I start to feel more at peace, at home even.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKCE26gC9EFubs0X58EykW9Uv4_2fcGawl-y0HZmpAFDmHmDp6qn59byUhgSHmgVfKRzjL_sgowzZNQIoxR0xZ8G8S4eD0UvgLsNV_LveIrli2W2d7fT5BdegJrrpIl2JPkeV3x6XAqSjgXGX2VtsxG8X3lifhC1SHfHjZ6WnaDZMuGi4eRSZXy3HkWqo/s6240/Tent%20at%20Twilight.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="font-style: italic; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4160" data-original-width="6240" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKCE26gC9EFubs0X58EykW9Uv4_2fcGawl-y0HZmpAFDmHmDp6qn59byUhgSHmgVfKRzjL_sgowzZNQIoxR0xZ8G8S4eD0UvgLsNV_LveIrli2W2d7fT5BdegJrrpIl2JPkeV3x6XAqSjgXGX2VtsxG8X3lifhC1SHfHjZ6WnaDZMuGi4eRSZXy3HkWqo/w400-h266/Tent%20at%20Twilight.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /><span style="color: #38761d;"><i>[My campsite at Twilight Tarn]</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: arial;">The small clearing that is my home for now is surrounded by dolerite boulders. They look as though they’re reclining, and after dinner I’m ready to do the same. But as hundreds of midges have found me, I have to retreat to my tent to do so. I know from experience that these sneaky little critters, while giving the impression of just buzzing around your face, will settle and bite. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Once I’m inside the tent, peace returns. I can rest and reflect on my day. I start considering how “taking my guilt, fear and anxiety for a walk” works in practical terms. Firstly I make sure I’m not doing a full inventory of everything that burdens me. That could crush me! Rather I wait to see which issues rise to the top, which are the headline concerns. Then I name them: literally give them a name. For me, of all of the things I might feel guilt about, I’m a little surprised by what comes up. I find I’ve been thinking about an old friendship that has withered, so I call this first burden “guilt about failing to nurture my friendship with X”. After naming it, I simply hold it, turn it in my mind, keeping it at some distance. Yes, in the busyness of mid-life; in being physically distant from my friend; in the aftermath of small misunderstandings, we have drifted apart.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgw5hcJE5e0erUis41SmOHlgt-vCNRDFDF8Rc8JqskP9dZPekewjHtmpnK1a9g_eKGcs2rLSFR4eIvoZkR3lm4F9c1_6pGgtdN66OoAdP-k3E9RW_r9WMYwPuAo8Q4otOKlUGaFrd5c75HbDayuOLSD81HllbFsfbKb6SA29-n-Qo8H45uK8A6H4YUxaL0/s5959/Pandani%20detail.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="font-style: italic; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3973" data-original-width="5959" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgw5hcJE5e0erUis41SmOHlgt-vCNRDFDF8Rc8JqskP9dZPekewjHtmpnK1a9g_eKGcs2rLSFR4eIvoZkR3lm4F9c1_6pGgtdN66OoAdP-k3E9RW_r9WMYwPuAo8Q4otOKlUGaFrd5c75HbDayuOLSD81HllbFsfbKb6SA29-n-Qo8H45uK8A6H4YUxaL0/w400-h266/Pandani%20detail.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /><span style="color: #38761d;"><i>[Richea pandanifolia - detail]</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: arial;">I try not to apportion blame during this process, but rather to gently interrogate my feelings. First off I feel gratitude for the years of our friendship, for the things we learned together, the good and hard times we shared. I also feel sadness at the stalling of our friendship, and my part in that. And I probe the complicated possibility of rekindling our relationship, pondering what it might take on both my side and his. There is not necessarily resolution today, certainly not “closure” (how I dislike that overused and inaccurate term!) But perhaps I understand myself and my friend a little better. Guilt among the gumtrees has lost some of its potency. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhj7KKU5JbyyvswIopBm0Gcj1UXU4aluD3BC1-6adwi_xl9veieCFs_kDkPFpgfHhDEXcnuoSyUUh2HNn_rDa7Z88xKKijAAkYNauCDAPsdA7VfZyeDdALgw0W8qbUqWLftZYflf6nHJ3-d6TPIkwnGI1edKQiO6um_3HPuEGAP6p0mCOu28Pe7gl-JzSw/s6240/Twilight%20Tarn%20+%20Hut.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="font-style: italic; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="6240" data-original-width="4160" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhj7KKU5JbyyvswIopBm0Gcj1UXU4aluD3BC1-6adwi_xl9veieCFs_kDkPFpgfHhDEXcnuoSyUUh2HNn_rDa7Z88xKKijAAkYNauCDAPsdA7VfZyeDdALgw0W8qbUqWLftZYflf6nHJ3-d6TPIkwnGI1edKQiO6um_3HPuEGAP6p0mCOu28Pe7gl-JzSw/w426-h640/Twilight%20Tarn%20+%20Hut.jpg" width="426" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /><span style="color: #38761d;"><i>[The old hut at Twilight Tarn]</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: arial;">There’s another aspect to it, well put by Catholic nun and theologian, Sister Joan Chittister. ‘Once I have felt guilt, I become a softer part of the human race.’ Or to put it in terms of the approach to spirituality I’ve been taking, the <b>inward</b> work can have <b>outward</b> results. A solo trip can be about me, certainly. But it can also be about others. And it can point me towards possibilities such as reconciliation and forgiveness: which have both <b>outward </b>and <b>upward </b>aspects in my spirituality.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Apparently there’s still more that wants to rise to the surface. Whether it’s fear or anxiety, I’m not certain, but on the final morning of my walk I stir from sleep well before it’s light. In a half-dream, half-awake state, I hear a bird fluttering. In my mind it’s small and dark, and I name it the bird of death. I’m more curious than afraid, and I ask the bird of death ‘Is it my turn? Have you come for me?’ The bird doesn’t speak, but looks at me with one unblinking eye, and I sense two things. First now is not my time, and second the dark bird is never far away.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: arial;">I’m not troubled by these dream thoughts. They remind me of what my younger sister Liz told me as she was nearing the end of her battle with brain cancer. We are all dying, she said. It’s just that I know the timing. Liz died far too young, at the age of 38. But as a person of faith, she was inpirational to the end. Back in my tent, as I’m pondering these big matters, I remember that today is Liz’s birthday. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p>Nature Scribehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12727570990616097487noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5268236451961589916.post-37312087501757769882023-01-11T12:41:00.000+11:002023-01-11T12:41:04.374+11:00Wandering the Little Fisher 3: Surprises<p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="text-align: left;">One</span><span style="text-align: left;"> thing has surprised me this entire walk. Tim D brings it into the open when we’re at Rinadena Falls. Knowing I’d walked up this valley long ago, and had reached Long Tarns on the plateau, presumably via the falls, he asks:</span><span style="text-align: left;"> </span><i style="text-align: left;">So do you remember the falls now?</i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: arial;">There’s no doubt Rinadena is memorable. And yet I have to tell him I don’t have a single memory of being here. Of course that previous walk was nearly 40 years ago, and memory’s net is both flimsy and fickle. Nevertheless I find it strange that either (a) we by-passed the falls, or (b) I’ve simply forgotten them. After returning home, I dig out some old photos from that walk. I can’t find any of Rinadena Falls, but there’s one – included here – that has a young me walking in the kind of forest we’d walked through to get to the falls on our current trip. The puzzle remains unsolved.</span><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3Qfb7GjiHqUooPipImOOUwiFmy3qha8WjmXmZhU4_2ECqxuLQer-1nTR3uRc8VV8yKg6m6SkQyStOgMNJvRDSdeztQzGiJpkOZgxYZ7Kt3EmQCG1b1yuJy-sTNvEq9l36k_7UJ_Vl-QkJQVBArYc_1mywp4_X6PxxLzLJM7varAgIbJndOn4F_1OH/s1504/PG%20on%20Long%20Tarns%20Track.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="font-family: Calibri; font-weight: bold; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1504" data-original-width="1052" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3Qfb7GjiHqUooPipImOOUwiFmy3qha8WjmXmZhU4_2ECqxuLQer-1nTR3uRc8VV8yKg6m6SkQyStOgMNJvRDSdeztQzGiJpkOZgxYZ7Kt3EmQCG1b1yuJy-sTNvEq9l36k_7UJ_Vl-QkJQVBArYc_1mywp4_X6PxxLzLJM7varAgIbJndOn4F_1OH/w448-h640/PG%20on%20Long%20Tarns%20Track.jpg" width="448" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /><span style="color: #38761d;"><i>[Me on the Little Fisher Track, 1983]</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Tim has one more surprise in store. At the end of our second day, we agreed we’d probably achieved most of what we wanted to from this walk. We’d found a great off-track campsite; located an abandoned hut site; and visited the legendary Rinadena Falls. Yes, we hadn’t gone up to the plateau as originally planned. But we were happy to forego that, given it would mean going back over yesterday’s walk <i>WITH</i> a full pack, <i>AND</i> into unfavourable weather. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: arial;">So I’ve gone to bed on the understanding that we’ll have a lazy morning, a slow pack up, and then we’ll walk out. But when I get to breakfast, Tim smiles and starts talking about a potential change of plans. It sounds ominous! He explains that Merran is feeling slothful after not joining us in our falls walk yesterday. So they suggest that before leaving we first have a bit of a “wander”. That’s a Tim word I’ve come to treat with some suspicion over the years, so my ears prick up. The “wander” will be up through trackless rainforest straight behind our camp, and towards the nearest high point. It’s an outlier of the Central Plateau that’s appropriately called Deception Point. What could possibly go wrong?<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgB7ktFQzXMhCRlFlgpnaNTXmubL1GUybF-XwJf5NXhTLS5CTrKQ3XvnN28L4NXkl_lTzxGlwiPuOdeUQp10nkBbK_qzTZSwcII4PHaSxEvlSHdC5eOQKntY4p8tLeTa7oPrPPDaoo1kuv2dfSn0DPo2pQC5hORg12cPhwKuSwbyBW4ihY6cljFaqOR/s6240/Up%20through%20forest.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="font-family: Calibri; font-weight: bold; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4160" data-original-width="6240" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgB7ktFQzXMhCRlFlgpnaNTXmubL1GUybF-XwJf5NXhTLS5CTrKQ3XvnN28L4NXkl_lTzxGlwiPuOdeUQp10nkBbK_qzTZSwcII4PHaSxEvlSHdC5eOQKntY4p8tLeTa7oPrPPDaoo1kuv2dfSn0DPo2pQC5hORg12cPhwKuSwbyBW4ihY6cljFaqOR/w400-h266/Up%20through%20forest.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /><span style="color: #38761d;"><i>[Onward and Upward through rainforest]</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: arial;">With daypacks on, and a promise that we’ll be back before lunch, we “wander” up, steeply up, through what I must admit is delightful forest. But did I say it was steep?! Upward we toil, gaining some 450 metres in altitude in around 90 minutes. That altitude gain is marked by considerable huffing on our part; plus a gradual stunting of the trees, and a marked increase in the thickness of the scrub. We finally reach rock, some of Tasmania’s ever-familiar dolerite. After a bit of scrambling and route finding, we break out onto a promontory beneath Deception Point.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNmaqN6CwSx1vujr7wj05JJxXFDp5QkfzL3N8iGhoG9ryAs2_ESqXdeKD5dp_wDbmTdsMacS_AgfVR0NLkls0NMx2N1r7FuaoTxx_huxbTUvKTMnMfAUbpXmp3Or-hIhnQucqOJiQ8F5BA2GCCnJX5Iznjwa0i-6Hl2i1189BTGQneXvmrtQoOO-5M/s6240/Deception%20Pt%20group.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="font-family: Calibri; font-weight: bold; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4160" data-original-width="6240" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNmaqN6CwSx1vujr7wj05JJxXFDp5QkfzL3N8iGhoG9ryAs2_ESqXdeKD5dp_wDbmTdsMacS_AgfVR0NLkls0NMx2N1r7FuaoTxx_huxbTUvKTMnMfAUbpXmp3Or-hIhnQucqOJiQ8F5BA2GCCnJX5Iznjwa0i-6Hl2i1189BTGQneXvmrtQoOO-5M/w400-h266/Deception%20Pt%20group.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /><span style="color: #38761d;"><i>[Our high point beneath Deception Point]</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Reading both his watch and the mood, Tim suggests this rock shelf, rather than the actual summit, might be enough for our morning wander. We enjoy a scroggin and drink break, and the chance to gain an overview of the country we’ve traversed – or planned to traverse – on this walk. Beneath us we see the clearings at the edge of which we’ve camped. And we make out the line of the Little Fisher Track, marked by a band of shorter, greyish regrowth. I realise that 40 years ago we’d have driven a long way up that track in a 4WD, before undertaking the much shorter walk up to the plateau. No wonder my memories are a little hazy.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSf9aF7u_sDQkAaN8L7GwgwjHek5qdkTcT0aYjY0VElyXpkK2xfu2jKzA5bKA_MLq4o9u3FLfowEBUEcCXEFOXsOXpj__vFC9x1HdT3T8PXnIuddAQFG0zdDWdn9du-HdQg7K07Fe1VK13qmq6nYaYP69mtmXEbSwie4bhhMS00e1_YthBjJrP9APd/s6240/View%20down%20to%20camp.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="font-family: Calibri; font-weight: bold; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4160" data-original-width="6240" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSf9aF7u_sDQkAaN8L7GwgwjHek5qdkTcT0aYjY0VElyXpkK2xfu2jKzA5bKA_MLq4o9u3FLfowEBUEcCXEFOXsOXpj__vFC9x1HdT3T8PXnIuddAQFG0zdDWdn9du-HdQg7K07Fe1VK13qmq6nYaYP69mtmXEbSwie4bhhMS00e1_YthBjJrP9APd/w400-h266/View%20down%20to%20camp.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /><span style="color: #38761d;"><i>[Looking down on the Little Fisher valley]</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Straight across the valley from our perch is Fisher Bluff, with its sharp drop-offs and abundant scree slopes. Further south-east are Turrana Bluff and Mersey Crag. I’ve been to these high points before, though not usually up the Little Fisher valley. It’s like running into old friends out of their usual context. We sit around for a while enjoying the elevation, and the memories of past walks. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWZJcgGb_i5sMZX7_os-nz42S17_2sQxX2rYsosuN5RT5TgELPQUjvODcDj_Wz4xr1nHiUTLw-v67ydupnaKvs8kTvz_dojVkxgkIo-IhAcoghHx43rsFfrAEJSpWKN7iOdwq91T1XH4JI01ZB5-3B6YfBR7JWZhviDBHXDgEPTexl8IcFvkOWUEXJ/s6240/Tangled.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="font-family: Calibri; font-weight: bold; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4160" data-original-width="6240" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWZJcgGb_i5sMZX7_os-nz42S17_2sQxX2rYsosuN5RT5TgELPQUjvODcDj_Wz4xr1nHiUTLw-v67ydupnaKvs8kTvz_dojVkxgkIo-IhAcoghHx43rsFfrAEJSpWKN7iOdwq91T1XH4JI01ZB5-3B6YfBR7JWZhviDBHXDgEPTexl8IcFvkOWUEXJ/w400-h266/Tangled.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /><span style="color: #38761d;"><i>[Spot the three walkers on our scrubby descent]</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: arial;">But what goes up must come down. Our knees don’t thank us for the relentlessness of the stumbling, sliding walk back to camp. But we arrive there remarkably close to the time Tim had said we would. (There’s a first time for everything.)<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLQbg1NmsEBsDF-Tjf4jp4cn4y-iBtHeKD6o1jNRyQG7s8oaV6g7Dt4Czqemfkp8NjVCfHFag9gplQ1JfJzmxBrQPVredlNbvtahu7birMJaXLh7J-89iVvBDeq78Y9WIgbOxyitV54L8luIM_bwCQ8Bx4O0W7AQkliprm-zh1j5h-i0Pixz2ZD8W3/s6240/Back%20at%20camp.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="font-family: Calibri; font-weight: bold; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4160" data-original-width="6240" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLQbg1NmsEBsDF-Tjf4jp4cn4y-iBtHeKD6o1jNRyQG7s8oaV6g7Dt4Czqemfkp8NjVCfHFag9gplQ1JfJzmxBrQPVredlNbvtahu7birMJaXLh7J-89iVvBDeq78Y9WIgbOxyitV54L8luIM_bwCQ8Bx4O0W7AQkliprm-zh1j5h-i0Pixz2ZD8W3/w400-h266/Back%20at%20camp.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /><span style="color: #38761d;"><i>[Back at our campsite]<br /></i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: arial;">One advantage of a late pack-up in warm weather is a dry tent. One disadvantage of a late departure, especially after a steep “wander”, is weariness. But by now we’re ready to leave, so we simply put our heads down and keep walking. Of course there’s one more nasty surprise. On the way in, concentrating as we were on getting going, and surviving the heat, we hadn’t noticed that the first 2km leading to the bridge over the Little Fisher River were downhill. And that means that the final 2km of our return walk are uphill. And since we’re now heading almost west, we’re also walking straight into the hot afternoon sun. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: arial;">In my fevered mind I become Manuel from Fawlty Towers, muttering</span><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span><i style="font-family: arial;">I no complain!</i><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span><span style="font-family: arial;">Perhaps Ken, who is trudging along beside me, might tell it differently. But what happens on the walk, stays on the walk!</span></p>Nature Scribehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12727570990616097487noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5268236451961589916.post-77028733205201080432023-01-06T12:30:00.000+11:002023-01-06T12:30:25.765+11:00Wandering the Little Fisher 2: From the Sublime to the Ridiculous<p style="text-align: center;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiy_CV3wWE3l0Cs1K-azSkka1PE82_UXreI5EiFjbUuZ2lmlRKj4n8kCO1R97BBB07lb2PDOcY2lNpv-7cthDKNjvXO35yXS6ap7jWxN-b-Ij_MQZz1xZliYCc-FVLszco83pNMvJVWC66OdyTmHsi0wnJDr8WHicvFx_1HqMFEI36yYvE7skrqZRLt/s6240/Falls%20Side%20View.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4160" data-original-width="6240" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiy_CV3wWE3l0Cs1K-azSkka1PE82_UXreI5EiFjbUuZ2lmlRKj4n8kCO1R97BBB07lb2PDOcY2lNpv-7cthDKNjvXO35yXS6ap7jWxN-b-Ij_MQZz1xZliYCc-FVLszco83pNMvJVWC66OdyTmHsi0wnJDr8WHicvFx_1HqMFEI36yYvE7skrqZRLt/w400-h266/Falls%20Side%20View.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /><span style="color: #38761d;"><i>[Our Goal for the Day]</i></span> </td></tr></tbody></table><p style="text-align: center;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; text-align: left;">Sounds from the nearby creek and river lull me towards slumber; the loveliest form of white noise. But when the whoosh of wind in the trees and the percussive patter of rain on the tent are added, I know the forecast change has arrived. It only encourages me to linger in the tent, so much so that when I blearily look at my watch, I think it reads 8:48. I’ve slept in!</span></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZvc0J0jzo4sGXNE_pyw9TyIjMc_LTeXYPDf6AlqATvNyZKGufwpHdtzNqUhpWfmtyexvg5PHIVcx6oWzba-XcAz5X_YYf_HrRB-wKdzfmrHx9X1BhlVnDuXt2afg5IxKlsQm2zdMmvimhQYVjCBfm8kDuJpdA_JOffmlYT-ZqkybfOlstL_wxxYES/s6240/Creek%20view.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="font-family: -webkit-standard; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4160" data-original-width="6240" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZvc0J0jzo4sGXNE_pyw9TyIjMc_LTeXYPDf6AlqATvNyZKGufwpHdtzNqUhpWfmtyexvg5PHIVcx6oWzba-XcAz5X_YYf_HrRB-wKdzfmrHx9X1BhlVnDuXt2afg5IxKlsQm2zdMmvimhQYVjCBfm8kDuJpdA_JOffmlYT-ZqkybfOlstL_wxxYES/w400-h266/Creek%20view.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /><span style="color: #38761d;"><i>[The nearby creek that lulled us to sleep]</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">I hurriedly emerge from my little red crysalis, and stumble over to our “kitchen” expecting everyone to have breakfasted and be wondering where I am. Only Tim is there, sipping coffee beneath the large tarp. There’s no sign of Ken or Merran. I check my watch and see that it’s actually 6:52. Oops – should’ve gone to Specsavers.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">By the time the others join us, the rain is consistent, as is the wind. We linger over breakfast, in no hurry to go out into this. My usual cup or two of tea with porridge is followed by a brew of coffee. We discuss our options. These are not the weather conditions for venturing onto the open plateau, and it’s clear none of us is in favour of donning our big packs and climbing out of the valley just yet. We sit tight. I have a second coffee. Our expedition is becoming <i>bijou </i>rather than epic.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAVegebVrUj_5dI0AY-xOMTscvF6gbzAwIr1gIGCtJvHW9yWZjO6lM3LT3VZzyxKRcwg-8mcQqGSfvzzKSJIXiJB3ku8JMKnoPMCSe49tKM0IINl-fKs0LS6G3P9eqrfuoVOjrhWN7cYkiB5dpNMKaCU8kS1ftHYFNaSqg9nAd3zfixZS16kl2qW1Y/s6240/Brekky%20under%20Tarp.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="font-family: -webkit-standard; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="6240" data-original-width="4160" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAVegebVrUj_5dI0AY-xOMTscvF6gbzAwIr1gIGCtJvHW9yWZjO6lM3LT3VZzyxKRcwg-8mcQqGSfvzzKSJIXiJB3ku8JMKnoPMCSe49tKM0IINl-fKs0LS6G3P9eqrfuoVOjrhWN7cYkiB5dpNMKaCU8kS1ftHYFNaSqg9nAd3zfixZS16kl2qW1Y/w426-h640/Brekky%20under%20Tarp.jpg" width="426" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /><span style="color: #38761d;"><i>[Our campsite kitchen beneath the tarp]</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Eventually we concede that we really should do at least some walking. And if it’s going to rain, what could be better than to walk through rainforest to Rinadena Falls? We’d actually crafted this Little Fisher wander with Tim O’Loughlin in mind, partly because he’d long wanted to visit these fabled falls. Alas TimO excluded himself from the walk at the last minute, having been a close contact of someone with Covid.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">In his honour we don wet weather gear and day packs, and head for the falls. Except there’s an undecided voter. Merran is very comfy in the tent, and reading something exciting. She waivers a little before wishing us well, and hunkering down inside the tent. So three of us amble across the floodplain, scout out a suitable river crossing, and rejoin the Little Fisher Track.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBaMjHXbAvfLTGxhIKkHDalRODNVyRlKS-9gkbgd2M84OGN5ljA_byCFc7ZjXUGEX_7NSPbhFmOdYNLa4aWK8V_Krg3ghQbHuAmzQOTtjKSt4hruDQQyEQk1WrwEJg9Gopya82jfmbod1X2rLndf_0luKfktXERjXvpnPKQWTRKjhNhD1l4kOO8_N2/s6240/In%20Rainforest.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="font-family: -webkit-standard; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4160" data-original-width="6240" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBaMjHXbAvfLTGxhIKkHDalRODNVyRlKS-9gkbgd2M84OGN5ljA_byCFc7ZjXUGEX_7NSPbhFmOdYNLa4aWK8V_Krg3ghQbHuAmzQOTtjKSt4hruDQQyEQk1WrwEJg9Gopya82jfmbod1X2rLndf_0luKfktXERjXvpnPKQWTRKjhNhD1l4kOO8_N2/w400-h266/In%20Rainforest.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /><span style="color: #38761d;"><i>[Ken and Tim on the Little Fisher Track]</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Hoods up, heads down we wander upriver in light but persistent rain. Tim D points out that we’ll soon be out of regrowth forest and into old growth rainforest. Once we cross that invisible boundary, the contrast is tangible. The girth and height of the dominant myrtle trees is much increased, and the complexity of the under-storey more obvious. We sidle up and down, but mostly up, through delightful, deep green, fern-fringed rainforest. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtZyos1Njhqpt0ywtWynHwd1Iv2T2VMPfuHJGuxxPFqcTuWn7vTVVxyVGOr3OKT9TDTTTvN8EscsmncWPlKMVcH378jaq3b3KjpBtR7-afSi6wXWWU_IbAPndqFEjPHe_ddbowdKfmm0_ZIZcpBdD37jPsUuwDExcUp08hoh1wDOoy88JdqbrSK5cp/s6240/Beside%20Little%20Fisher%20R.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="font-family: -webkit-standard; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="6240" data-original-width="4160" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtZyos1Njhqpt0ywtWynHwd1Iv2T2VMPfuHJGuxxPFqcTuWn7vTVVxyVGOr3OKT9TDTTTvN8EscsmncWPlKMVcH378jaq3b3KjpBtR7-afSi6wXWWU_IbAPndqFEjPHe_ddbowdKfmm0_ZIZcpBdD37jPsUuwDExcUp08hoh1wDOoy88JdqbrSK5cp/w426-h640/Beside%20Little%20Fisher%20R.jpg" width="426" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /><span style="color: #38761d;"><i>[Beside the Little Fisher River]</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">The Little Fisher is never far away, usually visible, always audible. Much of the forest floor is covered in almost luminous sphagnum, which is dotted with green and chocolate coloured leaves and twigs dropped from the trees. We also notice a proliferation of <i>Pterostylis scabrida </i>– rough greenhood orchids – more than I’ve ever seen. Occasionally the bright red flowers of Tasmanian waratah (<i>Telopea truncata</i>) provide a contrast.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrfDqGLs1gQ6X-zUy482zVaSSKf-lowwoNafiiBSUFZuSH98yVM7tQxDgG7OjSIA0CgZmowWvzv6pd-YZsdAO5XIKbrl4Z1c74E3trTjTP-Edom3fUkzwu2K6atHA3K7QOhs0iV5rjO0n-cgAGNYvO562ivFRIDNj0QGVA0PvsOA1POJtxoCuGIlyO/s6240/Greenhood%20cluster.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="font-family: -webkit-standard; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4160" data-original-width="6240" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrfDqGLs1gQ6X-zUy482zVaSSKf-lowwoNafiiBSUFZuSH98yVM7tQxDgG7OjSIA0CgZmowWvzv6pd-YZsdAO5XIKbrl4Z1c74E3trTjTP-Edom3fUkzwu2K6atHA3K7QOhs0iV5rjO0n-cgAGNYvO562ivFRIDNj0QGVA0PvsOA1POJtxoCuGIlyO/w400-h266/Greenhood%20cluster.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /><span style="color: #38761d;"><i>[A Cluster of Greenhood Orchids]</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> </span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiijjGWfmUUYHzBlH0ic7afZkYTW4tvlMMWPVikTIAbKKGgKEH6Mq3osvnG01Rvf-dnmWsh2q-T0h5do3MRNFoFR4EemvFSin10LoYkVET_U__NnFmzwuNxiqfXrQq7YMlDQDcoWElzUjPriRVEEh9pwD-iQFChvDe40bHWyLs0m-PrarUbKXY5N1fn/s6240/Ken+Waratah.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="font-family: -webkit-standard; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="6240" data-original-width="4160" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiijjGWfmUUYHzBlH0ic7afZkYTW4tvlMMWPVikTIAbKKGgKEH6Mq3osvnG01Rvf-dnmWsh2q-T0h5do3MRNFoFR4EemvFSin10LoYkVET_U__NnFmzwuNxiqfXrQq7YMlDQDcoWElzUjPriRVEEh9pwD-iQFChvDe40bHWyLs0m-PrarUbKXY5N1fn/w426-h640/Ken+Waratah.jpg" width="426" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /><span style="color: #38761d;"><i>[Ken photographs a Tasmanian waratah]</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">A little more climbing leads us away from the Little Fisher towards the falls, which are on a tributary creek. Our first glimpse of them is up through tall rainforest. Water drops over a broad rock shelf, perhaps 30m high, with the main channel a little off centre. Lesser falls and trickles add watery drama and mossy greenness to the whole. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj67ttPJeR2Sz-nT9own2djhFlNkHtGxF8_z3GCUxpC_59UKMjIoIF-h3KUoWABmcCSaYbuq2B3mLwiGcTGpe2MeWxQFZhS8XM0fhqMKSWaAWFjBX9xzN8UaPkYAwbA21KY3Kcc6b7h9Dd7rogNmIr4fTBXKBn7iMgfkx25UnHrFyjNDpGetWHXqAsX/s6240/Rinadena%20through%20forest.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="font-family: -webkit-standard; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="6240" data-original-width="4160" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj67ttPJeR2Sz-nT9own2djhFlNkHtGxF8_z3GCUxpC_59UKMjIoIF-h3KUoWABmcCSaYbuq2B3mLwiGcTGpe2MeWxQFZhS8XM0fhqMKSWaAWFjBX9xzN8UaPkYAwbA21KY3Kcc6b7h9Dd7rogNmIr4fTBXKBn7iMgfkx25UnHrFyjNDpGetWHXqAsX/w426-h640/Rinadena%20through%20forest.jpg" width="426" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /><span style="color: #38761d;"><i>[First glimpse of Rinadena Falls through the forest]</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_xEtKVH5yq8aeDWURr8DrTgkmQ3JBaSeBLarWKF9VPikMxCDcChe3t0kpfYSlLTcn4xnXr4iPdrwh7lya1zzJbFJXAj0KzAtI6OjJqEPtPTX-83vtlEEAmA2VYF3Jh35C6DcHmCmEpNu5vCAf_xku9tDUUKH3Fta7F-7LaF7OR_981IQSxQlxbP67/s6240/Falls1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="font-family: -webkit-standard; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4160" data-original-width="6240" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_xEtKVH5yq8aeDWURr8DrTgkmQ3JBaSeBLarWKF9VPikMxCDcChe3t0kpfYSlLTcn4xnXr4iPdrwh7lya1zzJbFJXAj0KzAtI6OjJqEPtPTX-83vtlEEAmA2VYF3Jh35C6DcHmCmEpNu5vCAf_xku9tDUUKH3Fta7F-7LaF7OR_981IQSxQlxbP67/w400-h266/Falls1.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /><span style="color: #38761d;"><i>[Part of Rinadena Falls]</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Surrounded as they are by beautiful rainforest, it’s hard not to be won over by these lovely falls. What’s more it’s stopped raining, and there may even be some sun waiting for us above the canopy. We sit on a log and take it all in over lunch. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglz1wf-wvg4YOFTd3cYntdzP1Mf1688vz1L902CISVLCzaG_33olbqN3v2nIvxH4OrS9fuCxd9G8Rd3OewvyXX4mSzrD0uY9jE8gosNxNroIxOGn8Jej5vmw1fDtAvsnC66smIxUdFQMRmdDVcTbE3oWLPKCP14QCU-cBzbHM1ojfY_XEEzdVxgwr4/s6240/Lunch%20at%20Falls.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="font-family: -webkit-standard; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4160" data-original-width="6240" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglz1wf-wvg4YOFTd3cYntdzP1Mf1688vz1L902CISVLCzaG_33olbqN3v2nIvxH4OrS9fuCxd9G8Rd3OewvyXX4mSzrD0uY9jE8gosNxNroIxOGn8Jej5vmw1fDtAvsnC66smIxUdFQMRmdDVcTbE3oWLPKCP14QCU-cBzbHM1ojfY_XEEzdVxgwr4/w400-h266/Lunch%20at%20Falls.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /><span style="color: #38761d;"><i>[Lunch in the forest by the falls]</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">After the mostly downhill wander back to camp, we’re well pleased with our few hours of walking. So pleased in fact that a couple of us retire to our tents for a recuperative break. In truth we’re also happy to get away from the mosquitos, which are enjoying our warm-blooded presence beneath the tarp a little too much.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">When we’re all back in the “kitchen” for dinner, our day goes from the sublime to the ridiculous. Tim decides to get serious about the mosquitos, and deploys a battery operated “mozzie zapper” he’s been given for Christmas. He turns the small dalek-shaped contraption on, and it emits a violet light. But if its job is to exterminate, it proves the mildest-mannered dalek imaginable. Hundreds of sizeable mozzies buzz around us, but show no interest in the zapper. We even “hoosh” a few towards it, to no avail.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSae6IuhFdiGhrgPbNrA49xwJKTahgsqehePfcfMPSRGqKpCrcyofiuW8wYhuUITw8-qpbKc-bPGTlwwMrq02uf_zKRIcOC-LVd4z9mjJheQzKODvq9tn2cgwK3QOPx8LgQw_Go9DSFaYFSmQcIZxOhJufcnbZjXqpoZC7G8nQ-UHogdtnHRt4qsHR/s5959/Mozzie%20Catcher.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="font-family: -webkit-standard; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3973" data-original-width="5959" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSae6IuhFdiGhrgPbNrA49xwJKTahgsqehePfcfMPSRGqKpCrcyofiuW8wYhuUITw8-qpbKc-bPGTlwwMrq02uf_zKRIcOC-LVd4z9mjJheQzKODvq9tn2cgwK3QOPx8LgQw_Go9DSFaYFSmQcIZxOhJufcnbZjXqpoZC7G8nQ-UHogdtnHRt4qsHR/w400-h266/Mozzie%20Catcher.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /><span style="color: #38761d;"><i>[One </i><span style="caret-color: rgb(56, 118, 29);"><i>kamikaze mosquito in the "zapper"]</i></span></span></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">We return to cooking, in between swatting mosquitos and applying repellant. And then it happens. There’s a barely audible “fizz”, and Tim nearly falls out of his Helinox chair, shouting “We’ve got one!!” Sure enough, some poor befuddled mozzie has strayed into the “killing machine”, and lies there, gently frying. Without meaning offence to the unfortunate <i>kamikaze </i>creature, we roll about, almost crying with laughter. We decide it deserves a posthumous Darwin Award for services to the mosquito gene pool. Its gormlessness will not be passed on.</span></p>Nature Scribehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12727570990616097487noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5268236451961589916.post-16598532927262318832023-01-04T16:48:00.001+11:002023-01-06T12:05:16.493+11:00Wandering the Little Fisher 1: Hot and Bothered<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: center;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">I should know by now that when it comes to bushwalking in Tasmania, “meticulous planning” is an oxymoron. I could bore you with all the plans; the variations on plans; the emails; the reply emails – or lack of them – and the “okay, how’s this?” follow-up emails. But let’s just say that busy-ness, weather, Covid, and human frailty all had their mitts on this walk. And yet …</span></span></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><b style="text-align: center;"></b></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNzx0cnBMHR1_AucF4IJP6zBw-tQExEh478fG8YSBElBFChwcNqAi-8F3zZpzkEUdqeeV6_cz4OeEwiAU2kbFA4Q5zpGNr3d098xBzQVGVoBHpPuacFhNQD6Tqlsa4cGden3d4ONS1BqrQn9ohN3r2dQcI33_EkhSod_POtxq9RwhtMVEsM_nKIn3J/s6088/Starting.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4059" data-original-width="6088" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNzx0cnBMHR1_AucF4IJP6zBw-tQExEh478fG8YSBElBFChwcNqAi-8F3zZpzkEUdqeeV6_cz4OeEwiAU2kbFA4Q5zpGNr3d098xBzQVGVoBHpPuacFhNQD6Tqlsa4cGden3d4ONS1BqrQn9ohN3r2dQcI33_EkhSod_POtxq9RwhtMVEsM_nKIn3J/w400-h266/Starting.jpg" style="cursor: move;" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /><span style="color: #38761d;"><i>[Starting Off in 32 Degree Heat, Fisher Bluff behind]</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">On a late December afternoon four walkers step out of an air conditioned car to be mugged by the heat of an old forestry coupe. Ahead of us stands a wall of mountains, familiar mountains. Their names, Fisher Bluff, Clumner Bluff, Turrana Bluff, Mersey Crag all speak of their verticality. Thankfully our first afternoon isn’t going to involve too much climbing. And that’s just as well, as our thermometer tells us it’s 32 degrees C. That’s great for swimming, but brutal for bushwalking with a full pack.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">While the mountains are familiar, this view of them is less so. We’re walking up the Little Fisher River, a deep valley carved out of the Great Western Tiers. Officially we’re walking into the Walls of Jerusalem National Park, though well east of the better known tracks and mountains.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">Pack on and sweat rising, the familiar call of black currawongs lightens my hot and bothered mood. I’m thankful too for the shade of the old forestry track we’re taking towards the tiers. We pause for a drink and a rest, and Tim D and I remember driving up here long ago, when this track was still open to vehicles. The road has been blocked off for years. More recently some huge weather events have eroded it so badly that not even the boldest of four wheel drivers would consider trying it.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><br /></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnnoCCPxuKcwsmt9WlITYfeTRurIwz00vQk5hZlYVKES6sY6avovjCbKcbyQW0yEjwq56dnUycunvxTFLKmywuNiQHzhEx7xybaFdp4IXaBRRoB3_cu4-ltOjerYYwL6MNQHXF6_HzDjNrYrTtbK742EgI827v8Fpan6icbXQHGniUdWDKkD12kh5D/s6240/Erosion.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-weight: bold; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4160" data-original-width="6240" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnnoCCPxuKcwsmt9WlITYfeTRurIwz00vQk5hZlYVKES6sY6avovjCbKcbyQW0yEjwq56dnUycunvxTFLKmywuNiQHzhEx7xybaFdp4IXaBRRoB3_cu4-ltOjerYYwL6MNQHXF6_HzDjNrYrTtbK742EgI827v8Fpan6icbXQHGniUdWDKkD12kh5D/w400-h266/Erosion.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /><span style="color: #38761d;"><i>[Erosion and repairs on the Little Fisher Track]</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">Our plan A for the first day had been to climb out of the valley and find a camp somewhere on the plateau near Long Tarns. In a concession to the heat, our tardiness, and the forward forecast, we’ve come up with a much more modest ambition. The Little Fisher is generally steep sided, but Tim has heard there may be camping near the river a couple of hours upstream of the start. His source has also told him that there’s an old cattlemen’s hut site in the same vicinity. Tim is keen to find and investigate the site. Two birds with one stone sounds like good energy conservation in this heat.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">Even so, by the time we leave the track and clomp our way through a soggy sphagnum-filled area in search of a campsite, I’m exhausted. Thankfully it doesn’t take long. At the edge of some rainforest, where two minor creeks feed into the river, we find a very pleasant site. It’s both shady and well-watered, and we’re surprised to find no evidence of previous camping. We drink deeply, rest for a moment, then suss out space for three tents: Tim and Merran’s, Ken’s, and mine. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><br /></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2R7HjbrZHkRGgU0ZamV6z_hq3FmOBwb-jgxltUkc60i4oVOURJxQcsifdho3Y0CYMP6RAyU4toXyuUtrSZsI2ihyVXCC6HlDkN9nvk0IAP2mzaqE7N-Jp9_6e0tCrGIoFYkPdjwDkvWhLcL1sOvPYprsZmKrVw0FQtuCoH89jkcnJ-t2rzJamEnzG/s6240/L.%20Fisher%20Camp.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-weight: bold; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4160" data-original-width="6240" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2R7HjbrZHkRGgU0ZamV6z_hq3FmOBwb-jgxltUkc60i4oVOURJxQcsifdho3Y0CYMP6RAyU4toXyuUtrSZsI2ihyVXCC6HlDkN9nvk0IAP2mzaqE7N-Jp9_6e0tCrGIoFYkPdjwDkvWhLcL1sOvPYprsZmKrVw0FQtuCoH89jkcnJ-t2rzJamEnzG/w400-h266/L.%20Fisher%20Camp.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /><span style="color: #38761d;"><i>[Camping in the forest, by the water: Ahhh!!]</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">When we’re satisfied with our setup, we prepare to go in search of the hut site. Tim’s informant hasn’t set our expectations too high. This won’t even be a ruined hut, just the hint of where a rough hut once stood. A GPS dot on a device is one thing; finding a site in quite thick regrowth is another. We spread out, and call to each other when we see anything that might be part of a site. Suddenly anything linear looks like a foundation or a fallen bit of a timber wall. Half an hour into our search Tim finally finds something more definitive. He calls us over to see some artefacts, a few glass bottles, a rusting billy and plate, and a bit of chain. A little away from the site we find some celery-top pine stumps. The builders seem to have cut more than they used, as some pine logs are still lying unused, partly preserved by their rot-resistant resin. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><br /></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsGO3GpdcRquUPzpf-pUGx7XHBdzAT4KeH9ghi-WW570Um_AZTQM-qm3i930KVVNBGGoznGwKLsQQJAUP0OL2pQtKP91-l0_LK8V2ool9HNA1eD-MUPMlvryIB5U4l3maDlH7pJYvv8EQe8r2lU1UgHKD5DWis03YHdL3XJHBW0gQroBWrfKwIqBdL/s6088/Artefacts.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-weight: bold; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="6088" data-original-width="4059" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsGO3GpdcRquUPzpf-pUGx7XHBdzAT4KeH9ghi-WW570Um_AZTQM-qm3i930KVVNBGGoznGwKLsQQJAUP0OL2pQtKP91-l0_LK8V2ool9HNA1eD-MUPMlvryIB5U4l3maDlH7pJYvv8EQe8r2lU1UgHKD5DWis03YHdL3XJHBW0gQroBWrfKwIqBdL/w426-h640/Artefacts.jpg" width="426" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /><span style="color: #38761d;"><i>[Artefacts at the old hut site]</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">Without doing any formal analysis, we guess to site to be at least 100 years old. Certainly in the late 19<sup>th</sup> century the area was regularly visited by cattlemen, who drove their stock up to summer on the pastures at this and higher altitudes. Between loggers, trappers and drovers, the area was well known and used. Yet now the forest, well-watered in this high rainfall area, is taking over again.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><br /></span><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0bQltVKVVgWdTZ3-fAQyLmuFsPt5rOoMs71TvljoFIBRxMsDJxvUk7IhgeaCtHK23tNC2R4LgN90_qA1aamVoPfUYhTVsUiG9wcUzM_85bnnMdKNBZJRn3mt0umMffemvpXICFdMctA6vAI6xZb7FB6s0c0Inc62m3AA2zkhnnOE4KrRmi1DDHm_I/s6240/Hut%20Site1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-weight: bold; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4160" data-original-width="6240" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0bQltVKVVgWdTZ3-fAQyLmuFsPt5rOoMs71TvljoFIBRxMsDJxvUk7IhgeaCtHK23tNC2R4LgN90_qA1aamVoPfUYhTVsUiG9wcUzM_85bnnMdKNBZJRn3mt0umMffemvpXICFdMctA6vAI6xZb7FB6s0c0Inc62m3AA2zkhnnOE4KrRmi1DDHm_I/w400-h266/Hut%20Site1.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /><span style="color: #38761d;"><i>[Ken and Tim at the hut site]</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">The hut site, sensibly, is elevated above the river valley. But as a large pool in the river is within about 100 metres of it, we detour that way on our return. The day is still very warm, and we’re sweat-soaked from our exertions. It would seem rude not to have a swim, so we do. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><br /></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNIqjeY9GHV95GttMukPHljx-tUUvKuAfU8hfd_kD2GfPYitbXNEHjUt3K3uivHsVskeUksu6qsNMIRBBYetcSsoFhiBmiaoR9RxQwifF35GfpBLw2Zpojo3PJkH5CvP2LNhi8eWCwgXs23iXCX1KrBVYjrqKC72HRAlSg6_dtc3jscL8AlEvOGain/s4882/Ken%20Swims.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-weight: bold; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4882" data-original-width="3254" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNIqjeY9GHV95GttMukPHljx-tUUvKuAfU8hfd_kD2GfPYitbXNEHjUt3K3uivHsVskeUksu6qsNMIRBBYetcSsoFhiBmiaoR9RxQwifF35GfpBLw2Zpojo3PJkH5CvP2LNhi8eWCwgXs23iXCX1KrBVYjrqKC72HRAlSg6_dtc3jscL8AlEvOGain/w426-h640/Ken%20Swims.jpg" width="426" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /><span style="color: #38761d;"><i>[The Swimming Hole: You Can Keep Your Hat On.]</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">The water is VERY bracing, but still an almost perfect way to end our hot day. Only a good meal and conversation back at the camp could improve on that. It does.</span><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><br /></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguWiwJguF8YPjUhFzhHDFczMZwoZj31B5CNDyEnPvbIgGkJZ3mrPo3qCOfAtXeshOJOvF6HZLqhnh1nudoxsXzopQA-lUdIhMcbdqO2JtsVOdniGu-Kh-eOhdlDofH8I13G_Yi0Yh1k6fAUqZnJe-SJxyo415gm_s4mUf_C73xlut8ih6H7R7NhvAR/s6240/Happy%20Campers.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-weight: bold; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4160" data-original-width="6240" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguWiwJguF8YPjUhFzhHDFczMZwoZj31B5CNDyEnPvbIgGkJZ3mrPo3qCOfAtXeshOJOvF6HZLqhnh1nudoxsXzopQA-lUdIhMcbdqO2JtsVOdniGu-Kh-eOhdlDofH8I13G_Yi0Yh1k6fAUqZnJe-SJxyo415gm_s4mUf_C73xlut8ih6H7R7NhvAR/w400-h266/Happy%20Campers.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /><span style="color: #38761d;"><i>[Merran and Tim: Happy Campers]</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table>Nature Scribehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12727570990616097487noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5268236451961589916.post-52461754913568548412022-08-11T16:03:00.000+10:002022-08-11T16:03:01.994+10:00Happy Places 2: Tasmania’s Central Plateau<p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; -webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: medium; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; orphans: auto; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: auto; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The Central Plateau has been dubbed ‘the roof of Tasmania’, and ‘the land of a thousand lakes’; which is about as nuanced as calling Australia the ‘wide brown land’. There’s so much more to this wild and high part of our island state. <o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><style class="WebKit-mso-list-quirks-style">
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</style><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">It owes a great deal of its identity to dolerite, and to a massive sub-surface upwelling of that igneous rock during the Jurassic age. Almost equally its identity has since been shaped by the ice sheet that covered the surface during a number of glacial phases. That covering was more ‘doona’ than ‘sheet’, as it measured hundreds of metres thick in some parts. As that huge amount of ice, at least 6000 sq km in area, slowly jostled and crunched across the plateau, it carved out lakes – many more than a thousand – and left sharp peaks and dramatic clefts. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-nX9lcWeDD5A1JJLDZYzBPDv3LZK9MGX75IM5H-gnig6DKgllHqjJYviiRKizOI7Oscy8oF1IYg3-ye9Bs8TpW7SZ4Zv1vpTywzKpLR0YE5uXEpXT8wp319Y9m69Q4jDbXCjzuWYTrA8C0eIuEnDt-RHJDGT75OF3B8MlaSlpieey4jyzgLiRZZ6U/s5472/Cushion%20Plants%20CP.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="font-family: -webkit-standard; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3648" data-original-width="5472" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-nX9lcWeDD5A1JJLDZYzBPDv3LZK9MGX75IM5H-gnig6DKgllHqjJYviiRKizOI7Oscy8oF1IYg3-ye9Bs8TpW7SZ4Zv1vpTywzKpLR0YE5uXEpXT8wp319Y9m69Q4jDbXCjzuWYTrA8C0eIuEnDt-RHJDGT75OF3B8MlaSlpieey4jyzgLiRZZ6U/w400-h266/Cushion%20Plants%20CP.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /><span style="color: #38761d;"><span style="caret-color: rgb(56, 118, 29);"><i>[A special spot on Tasmania's Central Plateau]</i></span></span></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span><span style="font-family: Calibri;">While much of that ice-age drama is over, the Central Plateau remains a vast area of largely wild high country. It’s roughly bounded by Great Lake to the east, the Great Western Tiers to the north, and the Walls of Jerusalem to the west. To the south the boundary is more vague, but perhaps the Lyell Highway marks a convenient edge. As this post is about my ‘happy places’, it’s probably okay to leave the big picture fuzzy, and focus in on the subject at hand.</span><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">So … where on this cold, high, wet and wild plateau are my happy places? I’m particularly thinking of <i>smultronställe</i>, a Swedish word that evokes that sweet, semi-secret favourite place; somewhere that – particularly during these cold months – makes me smile just thinking about it.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVNHvhianfAEqbVQG-3G0K5U35HrfYWWjW8BvSuB2KbgB7MknYvBx7_1KVgmtIcErFM3HfvBTbjLTIPPhbLYS1lTvxVUV57Q8D1w0hcm-YZKUJcDMFl65adVhZbjNTpchGJYqhgvyicJVzwUy9Xrz7im1T20S92rBjPkDjx3213TMOFN8J4QC8V2hS/s5472/BP%20Sunset.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="font-family: -webkit-standard; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3648" data-original-width="5472" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVNHvhianfAEqbVQG-3G0K5U35HrfYWWjW8BvSuB2KbgB7MknYvBx7_1KVgmtIcErFM3HfvBTbjLTIPPhbLYS1lTvxVUV57Q8D1w0hcm-YZKUJcDMFl65adVhZbjNTpchGJYqhgvyicJVzwUy9Xrz7im1T20S92rBjPkDjx3213TMOFN8J4QC8V2hS/w400-h266/BP%20Sunset.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /><span style="color: #38761d;"><i>[A sweet end to a lakeside night]</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span><span style="font-family: Calibri;">During more than 40 years of walking in Tasmania, I’ve been privileged to walk across the plateau numerous times, from every direction. I’ve written about some earlier walks here</span><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span><a href="http://www.naturescribe.com/2010/01/walking-with-ada-pt-1-not-lacking-in.html" style="font-family: Calibri;">Walking With Ada</a><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span><span style="font-family: Calibri;">and here</span><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span><a href="http://www.naturescribe.com/2010/01/walking-with-ada-pt-1-not-lacking-in.html" style="font-family: Calibri;">No Lack of Lakes</a><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span><span style="font-family: Calibri;">All that plateau wandering makes choosing particular</span><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span><i style="font-family: Calibri;">smultronställe</i><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span><span style="font-family: Calibri;">as difficult as naming my favourite child. But if I had to pick just three Central Plateau ‘happy places’, they would be (in no particular order):</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 36.0pt; mso-list: l1 level1 lfo2; text-indent: -18.0pt;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">1.<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The Walls of Jerusalem<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 36.0pt; mso-list: l1 level1 lfo2; text-indent: -18.0pt;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">2.<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Mount Rogoona<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 36.0pt; mso-list: l1 level1 lfo2; text-indent: -18.0pt;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">3.<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Un-named Lakes and Pencil Pine Groves<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">1) Certainly this choice needs some narrowing down, as The Walls of Jerusalem National Park covers 518 square km! Scattered across this mountain-fringed park are some wonderful campsites, both formal and informal; on-track and off-track. And I could have selected any of those. But because mountains are such a feature of The Walls, I’ve chosen <b>Solomons Throne</b> as my Walls of Jerusalem ‘happy place’. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjX6rAoeP5KqrOkjHIRFHYuajJBnCUhKc_1rB0AjJhbRTURXRtxjPNbcYLRo4gKCtE83zdQi4ht57VqFHFPitjvF5JQ91OO-znjIQQ6zXtKMpw5ghgBWZ4zvXyiUDMnE0quM9bb-H-W_O1pOvPhmPr9JI0SO8wPNsecTLbwImX8QT5wpz7xdnYuYC1z/s5184/Sol%20Throne%20Summit.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="font-family: -webkit-standard; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="5184" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjX6rAoeP5KqrOkjHIRFHYuajJBnCUhKc_1rB0AjJhbRTURXRtxjPNbcYLRo4gKCtE83zdQi4ht57VqFHFPitjvF5JQ91OO-znjIQQ6zXtKMpw5ghgBWZ4zvXyiUDMnE0quM9bb-H-W_O1pOvPhmPr9JI0SO8wPNsecTLbwImX8QT5wpz7xdnYuYC1z/w400-h266/Sol%20Throne%20Summit.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /><span style="color: #38761d;"><i>[Friends share special times on Solomons Throne]</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The peak is not the highest in the park, nor is it the most difficult to ascend. What make it sit so sweetly in my memory is a combination of my experiences here, and the superb vistas from the top. I’ve been up there in thick snow, and relished views outward towards a snow-bound Overland Track, and inward to the nearby pine-fringed lakes and vales. I’ve been there with family, introducing them to the wonders of our wilds. I’ve been there with friends (many times); with first-time walkers; and with international visitors who thought Australia didn’t have mountains. While I will certainly tire during the steep climb up a rocky chute to the peak, I will never tire of sitting on the Throne.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0ddbV4oV3mbdBnsPcFXXQ--5BAd8qTG-to7EQMrZOQMKmoU6ZvoJ7r_C1wwCkA81Km5S_53OtpvnX9GxTKzDgP-NLz70z_MJwEjWFMxNjZ2EqoZPz2tp4ihqOsosbdz7d9xNY9I8zOFxcf_r5NXPgIgmgdORS_C6cCWuVK6pV94G2YFF_8b436Rl3/s9139/Overland%20from%20Solomons%20Throne.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="font-family: -webkit-standard; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1982" data-original-width="9139" height="86" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0ddbV4oV3mbdBnsPcFXXQ--5BAd8qTG-to7EQMrZOQMKmoU6ZvoJ7r_C1wwCkA81Km5S_53OtpvnX9GxTKzDgP-NLz70z_MJwEjWFMxNjZ2EqoZPz2tp4ihqOsosbdz7d9xNY9I8zOFxcf_r5NXPgIgmgdORS_C6cCWuVK6pV94G2YFF_8b436Rl3/w400-h86/Overland%20from%20Solomons%20Throne.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /><span style="color: #38761d;"><i>[Looking towards the Overland Track from Solomons Throne ... <span style="font-size: x-small;">click to enlarge</span>]</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">2) The upper Mersey River roughly marks one edge of the Central Plateau. The Mersey Forest Rd also gives good access to one of the sweetest spots on the western side of the plateau: <b>Mount Rogoona</b>. I first heard about this mountain during the 1980s. A group I walked with had been planning a trip there, but a major fire burned out much of the track and surrounding areas, so we walked elsewhere. It wasn’t until nearly 20 years later that I finally reached that peak.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjxU7QxY8sbrIwKVQXLf1Ott78gTv0gRMfNiQ5ayUaeyLgrAk3_PFqeSnfWYAK_nOSmMYSHLvdxquT-uZXmSsScHxw-U9qWRJFIcZEIUxCxBTtkPsOsN3UQUTCa9tdY7tsQ6hWkSr24lVxs2aJEqBSnhi7Jc0NHrXbUwajVlmlhiyYQt4JwliB1e6Q/s5472/Rogoona%20Dusk.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="font-family: -webkit-standard; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3648" data-original-width="5472" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjxU7QxY8sbrIwKVQXLf1Ott78gTv0gRMfNiQ5ayUaeyLgrAk3_PFqeSnfWYAK_nOSmMYSHLvdxquT-uZXmSsScHxw-U9qWRJFIcZEIUxCxBTtkPsOsN3UQUTCa9tdY7tsQ6hWkSr24lVxs2aJEqBSnhi7Jc0NHrXbUwajVlmlhiyYQt4JwliB1e6Q/w400-h266/Rogoona%20Dusk.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /><span style="color: #38761d;"><i>[Mount Rogoona from Lake Myrtle]</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">And what a peak! It sits, sphinx-like, above the waters of Lake Myrtle, its knobby summit giving way to dolerite cliffs that are like a younger, smaller sibling of the Organ Pipes of kunanyi/Mt Wellington. For most visits to Rogoona, Lake Myrtle is the most convenient camping spot. However direct access to the peak is not easy from the lake. I found this out – in reverse – when a few of us decided to return from the summit direct to the lake. I would not recommend it! Rather the track between Lake Myrtle and Lake Meston leads to an easier slant-wise route to the mountain.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9PUBDgWRuq-TwE5i6-3-njFP-bE8HfC9rx5sLu-Hryi5N3qgw1xXF3225WgyKn3nCwvsHY3VwdQHaQVKS-nhe3ORMg0e6KZIK0Mr5ERX108VosFxE3z9OXId-BFeKZWQ70-7bcCdcpU-yKZO-9D8GuL-6BxuwG3h3Ffbp_z20S0hXLFWdnnYDhafi/s4979/Rogoona%20View.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="font-family: -webkit-standard; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3319" data-original-width="4979" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9PUBDgWRuq-TwE5i6-3-njFP-bE8HfC9rx5sLu-Hryi5N3qgw1xXF3225WgyKn3nCwvsHY3VwdQHaQVKS-nhe3ORMg0e6KZIK0Mr5ERX108VosFxE3z9OXId-BFeKZWQ70-7bcCdcpU-yKZO-9D8GuL-6BxuwG3h3Ffbp_z20S0hXLFWdnnYDhafi/w400-h266/Rogoona%20View.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /><span style="color: #38761d;"><i>[Summit Views from Mount Rogoona]</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Rogoona is essentially a small plateau whose summit is near the sheer dolerite cliffs on its north-western edge. So the views from the top are as vast as they are stunning. Steeply beneath and quite nearby is the tranquil Lake Myrtle. But your eye soon wanders west beyond the lake, over the nearby Cathedral Plateau, to the highest mountains of Tasmania, from Mt Pelion East to Mt Ossa and numerous others further south.</span><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Not once, but twice I’ve had that view ‘interrupted’ by a wedge-tailed eagle flying over. I’ve written in more detail here <a href="http://www.naturescribe.com/2013/05/moving-feet-bending-time.html">Eagle</a>, but suffice it to say that being buzzed and eye-balled by the largest raptor in Australia is one of the greatest privileges of being in remote Tasmania. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCoa687Xh4sB2UGAkYFy8xyxVavnknTw8Ej3ut4OYhYj_nR1hhOC9pSBMkwGzxqmGUyuup1gNiu37EZvdXS4GamUBwX_sj2r5C_zPMVk8Hr3fLg8yvnlC-fmFcq7VjUWd5bJvjB3p3W3cD4SIhTurW2PaHF2457TTLbbbaeQ0Z0OmfTdZW5JVr-Icr/s821/Wedge-tailed%20Eagle2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="font-family: -webkit-standard; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="618" data-original-width="821" height="301" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCoa687Xh4sB2UGAkYFy8xyxVavnknTw8Ej3ut4OYhYj_nR1hhOC9pSBMkwGzxqmGUyuup1gNiu37EZvdXS4GamUBwX_sj2r5C_zPMVk8Hr3fLg8yvnlC-fmFcq7VjUWd5bJvjB3p3W3cD4SIhTurW2PaHF2457TTLbbbaeQ0Z0OmfTdZW5JVr-Icr/w400-h301/Wedge-tailed%20Eagle2.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /><span style="color: #38761d;"><i>[Close encounter with the Rogoona Eagle]<br /><br /></i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="caret-color: rgb(56, 118, 29); text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; text-align: left;">After you’ve had that kind of mind-bending, time-stretching summit visit, there are few better places to sit and contemplate it than by the shores of Lake Myrtle. I’ve written about one particular experience here</span><span style="font-family: Calibri; text-align: left;"> </span><a href="http://www.naturescribe.com/2014/01/nights-by-highland-lake-part-one.html" style="font-family: Calibri; text-align: left;">Myrtle 1</a><span style="font-family: Calibri; text-align: left;">, here</span><span style="font-family: Calibri; text-align: left;"> </span><a href="http://www.naturescribe.com/2014/01/nights-by-highland-lake-part-2.html" style="font-family: Calibri; text-align: left;">Myrtle 2</a><span style="font-family: Calibri; text-align: left;">, and here</span><span style="font-family: Calibri; text-align: left;"> </span><a href="http://www.naturescribe.com/2014/01/nights-by-highland-lake-part-3.html" style="font-family: Calibri; text-align: left;">Myrtle 3</a><span style="font-family: Calibri; text-align: left;">.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">3) If the preceding ‘happy places’ would be easy to locate, the third is deliberately vague. <b>Un-named Lakes and Pencil Pine Groves</b> is a category of <i>smultronställe</i> that invites you to do your own explorations; make your own discoveries. And there could be few better places to wander in search of lakes and pencil pine groves than the Central Plateau. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; color: #333333; font-family: Calibri;">I once started the eye-watering job of trying to count the number of lakes just on the 1:25 000 <i>Ada</i> map. I gave up after counting 350 in one typical 10 sq km strip. Given there were 19 such strips still to count, it’d be fair to estimate between 5 000 and 7 000 lakes on the <i>Ada</i> map alone.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; color: #333333; font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEyLT3IQrMlpnyHYkWMt0ekVwAWQ-UjZUenl18HcbCOICSZZjbqxfTv2HzFA715zdgLHFMRyzcC7cp2KBo-9zXuGH6XVb6QKV6P2QFPr-CfOfWFx9MdnKCvA1NHJdzB4MyvvpJW0YIfYy08uY10OUBlccKIYsbDZh3_LOzu2TgIH9sBq8Npi9LfOJi/s5472/A%20Thousand%20Lakes.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3648" data-original-width="5472" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEyLT3IQrMlpnyHYkWMt0ekVwAWQ-UjZUenl18HcbCOICSZZjbqxfTv2HzFA715zdgLHFMRyzcC7cp2KBo-9zXuGH6XVb6QKV6P2QFPr-CfOfWFx9MdnKCvA1NHJdzB4MyvvpJW0YIfYy08uY10OUBlccKIYsbDZh3_LOzu2TgIH9sBq8Npi9LfOJi/w400-h266/A%20Thousand%20Lakes.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /><span style="color: #38761d;"><i>[So many lakes! A small part of the Central Plateau]</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium; text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Calibri; text-align: left;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium; text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Calibri; text-align: left;">Obviously the number of lakes alone makes searching the plateau for sweet spots a lifelong task. But once the search begins, it becomes more subtle than you’d think. Lakes mean water, and many lakes mean a lot of water. That in turn means often waterlogged ground, and camping in such places isn’t much fun – not to mention the impacts it can have on that environment. In my Central Plateau wanderings I’ve seen many spots that looked great from a distance, but turned out to be unsuitably sodden once you got there and looked for tent spots.</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Calibri; text-align: left;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; color: #333333; font-family: Calibri;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; color: #333333; font-family: Calibri;">Happy Place searchers also have to consider another weather factor apart from precipitation, and that’s wind. The often fierce winds here further narrow your camping options. What may be a perfect site on a calm night can turn perilous when the wind gets up. Shelter is paramount, which is why pencil pines are often your friend. But there are complications here too. Many pencil pine groves are so dense that there’s no room for tents. And if there is room, the ground is often covered in dense, soggy sphagnum and/or gnarled tree roots. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; color: #333333; font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTku40aLbcJaCmIGm-sG5PU_Iinhk8j6n86-qCJTIVNigo8xqSnfJ50p4nVmd0b4kbSYGaNSvJAd2jTC8ulZW2aACW237pfd1j3Hq2-YmUwxL8JtRAELhRkxrMPDHzJ8F4-pO694gy3d8qD0t3ukSUucL9XKaBUausADvM8etIOkWHeCzItLqYSTlL/s5472/BP%20Boots%20Off.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="font-family: -webkit-standard; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="5472" data-original-width="3648" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTku40aLbcJaCmIGm-sG5PU_Iinhk8j6n86-qCJTIVNigo8xqSnfJ50p4nVmd0b4kbSYGaNSvJAd2jTC8ulZW2aACW237pfd1j3Hq2-YmUwxL8JtRAELhRkxrMPDHzJ8F4-pO694gy3d8qD0t3ukSUucL9XKaBUausADvM8etIOkWHeCzItLqYSTlL/w426-h640/BP%20Boots%20Off.jpg" width="426" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /><span style="color: #38761d;"><i>[Boots off and </i><span style="caret-color: rgb(56, 118, 29);"><i>relaxing at a secret campsite]</i></span></span></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; color: #333333; font-family: Calibri;"><o:p> </o:p></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Calibri;">So … have I found some ‘Goldilocks Zone’ campsites on the Central Plateau? Of course I have. And I’ve spent some of my most blissful days and nights between a lake and some pencil pines. Am I going to share their locations here? Sorry, I’m not. What I can say is that if you</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Calibri;"> </span><i style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Calibri;">haven’t</i><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Calibri;"> </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Calibri;">searched for your own version, then you have a baffling, frustrating, but ultimately sublime quest ahead of you. If you</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Calibri;"> </span><i style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Calibri;">have</i><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Calibri;"> found such sites - or you recognise some of the ones pictured - I’d suggest you share that information sparingly. Let others have the thrill of the quest. Some places just shouldn’t be on Instagram.</span></p></div><p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2iKsytRyTWxWTa9kb5daz_ZuUD0fWIC-TzUPEg-M_Syt6Ocqcm0CcdF8qUru1H5LeOKF22HcLohoItM7JltLeh2v0d3nig9XOM48LNKvXXKcUNnQ-kQL3dbXIuIKIcfW6LAzhPy_aycuaKJS-3Oq6TW7PFpDyfhyDFSagyOMVI-POTI-bgbTyD5AY/s5472/BP%20Lakes.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3648" data-original-width="5472" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2iKsytRyTWxWTa9kb5daz_ZuUD0fWIC-TzUPEg-M_Syt6Ocqcm0CcdF8qUru1H5LeOKF22HcLohoItM7JltLeh2v0d3nig9XOM48LNKvXXKcUNnQ-kQL3dbXIuIKIcfW6LAzhPy_aycuaKJS-3Oq6TW7PFpDyfhyDFSagyOMVI-POTI-bgbTyD5AY/w400-h266/BP%20Lakes.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /><span style="color: #38761d;"><i>[Does wild camping come any better than this?]</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table></p>Nature Scribehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12727570990616097487noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5268236451961589916.post-66500869066164470792022-08-02T10:28:00.000+10:002022-08-02T10:28:16.241+10:00Happy Places 1: Smultronställe<p><span style="font-family: verdana;">In the (relatively shallow) depths of a Tasmanian winter, I find myself daydreaming of other places and other seasons. Take Sweden in summer as an example. <i>Why Sweden for goodness sake? </i>(you may ask.)<i> Haven’t you watched enough Scandi noir to know Sweden is a place of constant snow, rain and grey weather, all bundled up in a flat and dreary landscape?</i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">My simple answer is this. Before you judge it, spend one week of summer in Sweden. That is unless you object to VERY long, mild days, beautiful forests, meadows full of wildflowers, and stunningly intricate waterscapes of lakes and sea. And that’s not to mention the Swedes themselves, who in summer throw off their Scandi gloom, and become all frisky and fun-loving.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: center;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Take, for instance, one of their linguistic delights: the Swedish word smultronställe. It literally translates “place of wild strawberries”, but is most often used metaphorically to mean a semi-secret favourite place; a place that makes you happy. English phrases like “sweet spot” or “happy place” feel linguistically pale in comparison. If you've eaten wild strawberries, you'd surely agree. <i>Smultronställe</i> is a word forged from dark winters, scarce sun, and the utter delight at the sweet return of light and flavour. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"> <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">So it’s not unusual in Sweden to be asked for your <i>smultronställe</i>. What is your special place in the outdoors? It’s a question that resonates very much with me in relation to bushwalking in Tasmania. I’m often asked, especially by those who are not bushwalkers, or by people from other parts of Australia or the world, what my favourite bushwalking spots are. My plan for what remains of winter is to write about some of these in a series of blog posts; to share a bit of my daydreaming about places I'd rather be. However I should warn – and it’s probably in the spirit of <i>smultronställe</i> – that my posts might be a little geographically vague. If places are semi-secret, maybe it’s best that people discover their sweetness for themselves.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">But before I start on my Tasmanian <i>smultronställe</i>, it’s only fair that I mention at least one favourite Swedish place. And that is Ängsö National Park, on the eastern coast of Sweden, about an hour’s drive north-east of Stockholm. I’ll let these images be a little taster of this beautiful place, and a reminder of all that was sweet – and accessible – before the pandemic. Let’s hope that such places will be within safe reach again in the future.</span><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIMK7Rw8oKwj_pz1Uy_38fRc0rrirMr_OyVUq7hCzhGGhFfv-SlDEQVj5hEgpX-cUewcxd0IkyjdJtX4qxRI546iTZbFQf78CIZfCaOzg3cgNwp6RZC_52ph-Y_K1P45zrJ1CLBvVROO-GrVL9cs9tspLOsIWh4uKoygaAplwPSOQ6iOzOaR_HsI0s/s5472/Swedish%20flower%20meadow.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="5472" data-original-width="3648" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIMK7Rw8oKwj_pz1Uy_38fRc0rrirMr_OyVUq7hCzhGGhFfv-SlDEQVj5hEgpX-cUewcxd0IkyjdJtX4qxRI546iTZbFQf78CIZfCaOzg3cgNwp6RZC_52ph-Y_K1P45zrJ1CLBvVROO-GrVL9cs9tspLOsIWh4uKoygaAplwPSOQ6iOzOaR_HsI0s/w426-h640/Swedish%20flower%20meadow.jpg" width="426" /></a></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: center;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhl2ANbZyLxM2bIUVAi6QhwhmzNVAmIiNM8ehkSSebDlWPTY0HSZaCWDPvf3JnWERuZnYd3BnWf3akz0LVt0QCP-bx-mLcgtoO1jc3bICiJQ1HsXFMPj7hFPDlKYFulPytXr1uO8X_Vf8reACHbT_Yzz7atU1Ed8GY1O4naKIl-fpr4nP3VrObKxGV/s5472/Angso%20NP.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="5472" data-original-width="3648" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhl2ANbZyLxM2bIUVAi6QhwhmzNVAmIiNM8ehkSSebDlWPTY0HSZaCWDPvf3JnWERuZnYd3BnWf3akz0LVt0QCP-bx-mLcgtoO1jc3bICiJQ1HsXFMPj7hFPDlKYFulPytXr1uO8X_Vf8reACHbT_Yzz7atU1Ed8GY1O4naKIl-fpr4nP3VrObKxGV/w426-h640/Angso%20NP.jpg" width="426" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: center;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinzySHKLmb3mfzRpKIybI-4Km7BNmUlhEjEIiu_shG_wz2vRqLqY7b13Wzmzr1t-wqaZvWAmfh3M5D9sUtlZKctmNehlcZHK-h-pm19CrVaBnEg0lXmH9kiL3-88EqTuX9AJyMOM3kOo3kUd3qMEgSRa871kRUhMZ_FZZpgj8orAZV_RAcKWtBmOnp/s5472/Coastal%20Sweden.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3648" data-original-width="5472" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinzySHKLmb3mfzRpKIybI-4Km7BNmUlhEjEIiu_shG_wz2vRqLqY7b13Wzmzr1t-wqaZvWAmfh3M5D9sUtlZKctmNehlcZHK-h-pm19CrVaBnEg0lXmH9kiL3-88EqTuX9AJyMOM3kOo3kUd3qMEgSRa871kRUhMZ_FZZpgj8orAZV_RAcKWtBmOnp/w400-h266/Coastal%20Sweden.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: center;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzc4ecs8IS-GrtuzRZqdTVJMMdK0AFDUBdhrQXwfIsaaP55qMEgeVnUg9W6xSOxZQooniWvaHYw5qYnWZ0bSAM5AiwmeZim2dnO2yt1Nxd8guwMb_TB2aiHIqgfM369E2dq5KJjeCyMA8wyIKPwxD7v1NE66eYdz844yoYCbcJMsiMmt_sAYNNt36g/s5472/Forest%20and%20Meadow.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="5472" data-original-width="3648" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzc4ecs8IS-GrtuzRZqdTVJMMdK0AFDUBdhrQXwfIsaaP55qMEgeVnUg9W6xSOxZQooniWvaHYw5qYnWZ0bSAM5AiwmeZim2dnO2yt1Nxd8guwMb_TB2aiHIqgfM369E2dq5KJjeCyMA8wyIKPwxD7v1NE66eYdz844yoYCbcJMsiMmt_sAYNNt36g/w426-h640/Forest%20and%20Meadow.jpg" width="426" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #38761d;">[<span style="font-family: verdana;">Scenes from<b> </b></span></span><span style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #38761d; font-family: verdana;">Ängsö National Park, Sweden]</span></span></div>Nature Scribehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12727570990616097487noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5268236451961589916.post-10755712884547440712022-03-09T16:49:00.001+11:002022-03-09T16:49:09.822+11:00Cathedral Plateau 3: Highs and Lows<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: center;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; text-align: left;">The bright early evening leaked its light slowly. It was that time of day when the world holds its breath, and anything seems possible. And sure enough Tim D went full Shackleton on us, trying to talk TimO into climbing all the way up to the plateau’s edge to watch the sunset. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; text-align: left;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi35z3lDeQhd8v8XPcTnsnizi54MmC9qe5QjxnzuE0yojG8dns2hKgpy_AKrYt4aG1eZrtQ5mN8P7pN5iLR_4fp5rdQ0fr0Jyn8u52HblnU9Ly27D5sTOLJB2OfLM5slNhF51AfzFu_hkHL8opTMJrKZyyopvLV4mxf8A-Jub0JScB5ize52bx9fPNY=s596" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="276" data-original-width="596" height="185" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi35z3lDeQhd8v8XPcTnsnizi54MmC9qe5QjxnzuE0yojG8dns2hKgpy_AKrYt4aG1eZrtQ5mN8P7pN5iLR_4fp5rdQ0fr0Jyn8u52HblnU9Ly27D5sTOLJB2OfLM5slNhF51AfzFu_hkHL8opTMJrKZyyopvLV4mxf8A-Jub0JScB5ize52bx9fPNY=w400-h185" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /><span style="color: #38761d;"><i>[Ernest Shackleton's supposed newspaper ad. for his Antarctic expedition]</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">TimO is always up for a challenge, but he was also a very tired boy. I stepped in, taking on the (mock) role of his coach/manager – dreadful Michael Caine accent and all – insisting that ‘<i>my boy ‘ere</i>’ would need more than ‘<i>some dubious promise of a flash of sun, followed by an uncertain return, fully in the dark</i>’. Surprisingly TimO followed his manager’s advice, settling instead for Tim D’s tamer challenge: a game of <i>Yaniv</i>. It was a card game TimO knew nothing about, so he clearly still needed his ‘manager’ (who also knew nothing about the game; didn’t want to try it; and would retire to his tent mid-game). To cut a long story short, TimO lost the game gloriously – and noisily – despite his manager shouting from his tent such timeless encouragement as: ‘<i>Go hard son</i>’ … ‘<i>Give it 110%</i>’ and ‘<i>Go up the guts!</i>’. Yet even after the heavy loss, TimO had to admit it beat a stumbling return through scoparia in the dark!<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgsCMvOkrDfXkcgILFHDLU8puqJku27gBLHoO5bPyVa-ujBMEMvoI9BhsgTdver0NLiNX0hx9O62uRcu2khywB7e8j0pu8EjbBNcx36M1qDl-zHcp7JtvArUZJZlZwuZjraU7i-g-S9pw7gAVBs3wcIdEICMe6DE7pVBlFn5Or8Nd9Xk9OCx_6S4w4E=s6240" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4160" data-original-width="6240" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgsCMvOkrDfXkcgILFHDLU8puqJku27gBLHoO5bPyVa-ujBMEMvoI9BhsgTdver0NLiNX0hx9O62uRcu2khywB7e8j0pu8EjbBNcx36M1qDl-zHcp7JtvArUZJZlZwuZjraU7i-g-S9pw7gAVBs3wcIdEICMe6DE7pVBlFn5Or8Nd9Xk9OCx_6S4w4E=w400-h266" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /><span style="color: #38761d;"><i>[A Misty Morning at Tent tarn]</i></span><span style="font-family: helvetica; text-align: left;"> </span></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">The morning was quieter, a soft, dwindling mist dampening sound and tent alike. We had a less ambitious day planned, with the ascent of Cathedral Mountain itself the first agenda item. This was even via a marked route, with rock cairns making it hard to miss. This beaten-path look was new to those of us who’d been here many times before. My guess would be that it was down to Cathedral’s status as an ‘Abel’, a label that somehow makes one mountain a more desirable goal than a perfectly beautiful nearby one that doesn’t qualify for that designation.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: center;"></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi2vcbCd-HJh6PI-ibXMbn58EZZPuR0e66xpyt9mgC_z3mBl2yQBtUKfj9TquDo4RYdV5XyGWy9TEsNzuhQV5hHvg8jA0Tb5YkdN8u2yHvpoBdtVZSurkqu9n9zTQWBqlrHZAjArkdxXFxTHl7JG-kTsmKvnJ6jrCpXWCT8CO-KcoYdApKVWXTwJ3Ic=s6240" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4160" data-original-width="6240" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi2vcbCd-HJh6PI-ibXMbn58EZZPuR0e66xpyt9mgC_z3mBl2yQBtUKfj9TquDo4RYdV5XyGWy9TEsNzuhQV5hHvg8jA0Tb5YkdN8u2yHvpoBdtVZSurkqu9n9zTQWBqlrHZAjArkdxXFxTHl7JG-kTsmKvnJ6jrCpXWCT8CO-KcoYdApKVWXTwJ3Ic=w400-h266" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /><span style="color: #38761d;"><i>[Jim ascends from Tent Tarn]</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Before we’d ascended far it became clear that Jim wouldn’t be going any further than the first summit. He was again struggling with dizziness and a lack of energy. Today that wouldn’t be a problem, as he could station himself on Cathedral and return to camp safely whenever he liked. So while the rest of us walked beyond the peak, down to the plateau’s edge, he luxuriated in a patch of sun that also had mobile reception. Only a hut would have improved how well this suited him. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiMr1hK8gGvAo2IqFpRlgQ9lBKaGEFzW7AKdtbmdt0qESrcAcpRWcAUT9efsGgq0tuglLpAbK4NGe_Z0TzYGYXk4QDSYqi-W16WPfMx4vUIw6sxSuQJKON4y9NONOZ3AeLgGwR3bwDEIhgX_4l7LNWa0ZbrzbDzrGf7omWCmzDkVJEEu_xwXLSjjf4T=s6400" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="6400" height="144" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiMr1hK8gGvAo2IqFpRlgQ9lBKaGEFzW7AKdtbmdt0qESrcAcpRWcAUT9efsGgq0tuglLpAbK4NGe_Z0TzYGYXk4QDSYqi-W16WPfMx4vUIw6sxSuQJKON4y9NONOZ3AeLgGwR3bwDEIhgX_4l7LNWa0ZbrzbDzrGf7omWCmzDkVJEEu_xwXLSjjf4T=w640-h144" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /><span style="color: #38761d;"><i>[A Panorama from the Plateau's Edge]</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">The sky had cleared as expected, and by the time we reached the cliff line, the day was a stunner. The views were even better, with every Overland Track mountain from Olympus in the south, to Cradle in the north, clearly visible. We could even make out a distant Frenchmans Cap. These are views that never pall, and we feasted on them for a long time before deciding that a swim in one of the rim pools further along the edge would make a great day even better.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiJBNS3BV7ck8x9HV1i6Ba5Hn_CcUno4BEYkB9UagMwuG4PdRGh6c47k2W2RvvkHdCxc36LgsEBqE1u9XalmLjgMQYkeV5dg9NoBQ0suSTSs115IS4WQ3JRACpKCR2dvmSwt8lndcvfer5vlhmGPq0jHb6KL-pVv9o-s_e9ljxUhe2nrElcb1DpkwaM=s6240" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4160" data-original-width="6240" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiJBNS3BV7ck8x9HV1i6Ba5Hn_CcUno4BEYkB9UagMwuG4PdRGh6c47k2W2RvvkHdCxc36LgsEBqE1u9XalmLjgMQYkeV5dg9NoBQ0suSTSs115IS4WQ3JRACpKCR2dvmSwt8lndcvfer5vlhmGPq0jHb6KL-pVv9o-s_e9ljxUhe2nrElcb1DpkwaM=w400-h266" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /><span style="color: #38761d;"><i>[Looking towards Mt Ossa and the Pelions]</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"></span><br /><span style="font-family: helvetica;"></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg2O0esmSU8xOc4NnFMm5-a-3kNhPbPDhS23QNo24zro1rJNLWC6qHkUjGY9yY9Nvf4lJswu27xpkt5V8gLH9aH5FYmWN1qyXwz5kyOqSkpBcR-PjdYvZRy-iMCox53SSVx_tnFtgfkA6deR1rDBeDpeIj-nMFuZ11tTPWQHa-ho4eqogqQw6imTORU=s6240" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4160" data-original-width="6240" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg2O0esmSU8xOc4NnFMm5-a-3kNhPbPDhS23QNo24zro1rJNLWC6qHkUjGY9yY9Nvf4lJswu27xpkt5V8gLH9aH5FYmWN1qyXwz5kyOqSkpBcR-PjdYvZRy-iMCox53SSVx_tnFtgfkA6deR1rDBeDpeIj-nMFuZ11tTPWQHa-ho4eqogqQw6imTORU=w400-h266" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /><span style="color: #38761d;"><i>[TimO at the Edge of Cathedral Plateau]<br /></i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">We were spoiled for choice, walking past several lovely looking pools – none of them named – before finding one that had an accessible island and a rock shelf from which we could swim before lunch. I’ve swum in the highlands of Tasmania many times, and it’s rare for the water to be either warm or inviting. Today it was both, and we all plunged in, the Tims choosing to do laps. TimO, despite his delicate Irish complexion, even spread himself on a rock for a micro-sunbake. And from high above we noticed Jim still up on Cathedral, occasionally waving, and (we would learn later) taking distant paparazzi-style pictures of us. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjazvXCduDNctakW871O0oTDtkcFb5P3pBYG_kgTAqjBRnEZwuGiMgtFXYHo3joReOoAcSDrpbyqbW-JGm4rbW58IrAiSk91lMozooRGwgiM4MAeP--394T4QcI2nNmSoOw4-GH7odoNrD25RRUkaXnsPPWVy0OcCBBKhygjm5rYTznMIGy8tf45305=s6088" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="6088" data-original-width="4059" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjazvXCduDNctakW871O0oTDtkcFb5P3pBYG_kgTAqjBRnEZwuGiMgtFXYHo3joReOoAcSDrpbyqbW-JGm4rbW58IrAiSk91lMozooRGwgiM4MAeP--394T4QcI2nNmSoOw4-GH7odoNrD25RRUkaXnsPPWVy0OcCBBKhygjm5rYTznMIGy8tf45305=w426-h640" width="426" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /><span style="color: #38761d;"><i>[Tim D swims in the unnamed pool]</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">We finished our pool-side stop with a relaxed lunch, and all agreed this had been a rare and sublime episode in an already wonderful day. What could top this, we wondered, as we wandered slowly past a few more pools and then down a ridge towards our home tarn? What happened towards the end of that return didn’t exactly top the rest of the day. But it certainly added an exclamation mark to it!<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgLXYKauMrPAchTavSadsrTc48EKF2B1pCVJgLScepg22-DASO3_k-JPU3C2BI7b0xt_lC4UI9Yl7zMQo_ITpQZrE97I5oJfHqZNfkR0QLc3qoP66BYY4RDnXSPomDjCbhduQRSSjzwsoleLt2nQ8SEVawQqZqlpq6rpuqwEcA4VIcrCxvQwUID3t5K=s6426" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4284" data-original-width="6426" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgLXYKauMrPAchTavSadsrTc48EKF2B1pCVJgLScepg22-DASO3_k-JPU3C2BI7b0xt_lC4UI9Yl7zMQo_ITpQZrE97I5oJfHqZNfkR0QLc3qoP66BYY4RDnXSPomDjCbhduQRSSjzwsoleLt2nQ8SEVawQqZqlpq6rpuqwEcA4VIcrCxvQwUID3t5K=w400-h266" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /><span style="color: #38761d;"><i>[What could beat this rim pool scene on Cathedral?]</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Our descent was off-track, and mostly through light scrub. This sometimes required us to pick the path of least resistance, so we’d spread out a little by the time we were closing in on Tent Tarn. Tim D, Libby and I had chosen a line down one side of a small scrubby creek, while TimO and Merran were on the other side. Tim D suddenly stopped, and called out “Ooh, a big one!” We knew he was referring to a tiger snake, so Libby and I stopped to see what we should do next. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Tim D cautiously walked to the far side of the bush into which the snake had disappeared. Completely without warning the 5 foot long snake darted out of the bush at full speed, straight towards Libby and me. I let out a sharp expletive and rushed to escape in the opposite direction. Instead I stumbled over my trekking pole, falling heavily on my arm. What?! On the ground with a tiger snake just metres away from me?! In complete panic I struggled back to my feet, only to fall again, expecting the snake to be right there where I’d fallen. My heart racing, I eventually scrambled back to my feet to find Libby still standing where I’d last seen her, and Tim D coming cautiously towards us.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Apparently the snake, spooked by Tim’s footsteps, had turned to escape from him only to hear/see another walker (me) crashing to the ground in front of it. The snake had then slipped straight by Libby’s boots as she stood still, “like a rock, like a tree”, as she later told us. Fortunately for me, my attempted escape had been both noisy and diagonal, and the snake had made for the scrub elsewhere. We all stood there for some time, adrenaline pulsing through our bodies, before quietly and cautiously resuming our walk back to camp. We had quite a story to tell!<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"></span><br /><span style="font-family: helvetica;"></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjDNcObTP5kEPE7_8NC-mog2qr2ro4ccwwZZ-Qjpgnrg8x944AeNvrcP4vRp-7_S9t4Jw1FpqKF9Cv4Cr-oLgvZbUnKWS2gB3hrsO-puSqun_Pyyyyn8jrpEo3sna8_6T-jgphUpX7VaVKOnzOOH9o4U3WhXzlTwbfW8s4VrNWfYMqU42zUfNGShl3E=s2016" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2016" data-original-width="1512" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjDNcObTP5kEPE7_8NC-mog2qr2ro4ccwwZZ-Qjpgnrg8x944AeNvrcP4vRp-7_S9t4Jw1FpqKF9Cv4Cr-oLgvZbUnKWS2gB3hrsO-puSqun_Pyyyyn8jrpEo3sna8_6T-jgphUpX7VaVKOnzOOH9o4U3WhXzlTwbfW8s4VrNWfYMqU42zUfNGShl3E=w480-h640" width="480" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /><span style="color: #38761d;"><i>[My bruised upper arm - photos by Jim Wilson]<br /></i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjIFJ2Goh3wjOrG5SSdwFrFZD82an-zXt_pKlMn8mmWo-_d3jfpNE6tHiMJWm_vpq781fAzM4oXSPKTbQ_m3FsFdj4_r-kXpJIgFES9Aiq2sLHB6hzS-8I8gjWjVYVxuY67ufCjFBUiftS31Fmg4NrtDmVGImy3Rjgk_4MNfRwE9HeELhLv8APhBIWJ=s2016" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2016" data-original-width="1512" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjIFJ2Goh3wjOrG5SSdwFrFZD82an-zXt_pKlMn8mmWo-_d3jfpNE6tHiMJWm_vpq781fAzM4oXSPKTbQ_m3FsFdj4_r-kXpJIgFES9Aiq2sLHB6hzS-8I8gjWjVYVxuY67ufCjFBUiftS31Fmg4NrtDmVGImy3Rjgk_4MNfRwE9HeELhLv8APhBIWJ=w480-h640" width="480" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /><span style="color: #38761d;"><i>[Snake Bite? No, but enough for Jim to beat up a story.] </i></span><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> </span></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">What really happened here? I’ve replayed the incident in my mind many times. I am not fearful of snakes. I admire them, and have a healthy respect for them. I would see a couple of snakes every summer when I’m out bush, and have never had an ‘adverse’ encounter with one. But all I can say is that, given this situation 100 times over – a snake coming full pelt, straight at me from 2-3 metres away – I would react exactly the same. Why? Because my reaction to the threat was involuntary, involving my sypathetic nervous system. This is often given the shorthand of “fight, flight or freeze”. Obviously my reaction, “flight”, might not have been wise. All I can say is that it was completely instinctive.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">But why was Libby’s reaction so different? She explained to us that she heard the voice of her grandfather, who had experience in handling snakes. If one threatens you, he’d advised her, “be a rock, be a tree”. This sounds like a conscious choice, rather than a “freeze” response, as mentioned above. I can only say I’m astonished by her reaction, which was both wise and effective. In my own case, I’d have to say that my conscious mind was not in play in my own initial response. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">As we told the others our story back at the campsite, we again showed our different emotional reactions to the adrenaline that was still coursing through our systems. I gabbled out loud, retelling the story over and over, while Libby had a quieter emotional moment. Over dinner we continued to reflect on a day of amazing highs and literal lows (for me at least), before Tim D brought out some port to settle us for the evening. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgwN7rvke7Dtr969T7FxgjC9kmoHJ2L48ddKSapBxj2C5IAApiv-CXdaGrZsuhXm2S-GznspzRVaZjVp9aVAJUQCBu6sUIZDFKLcZQKXn0ruPe1UUNV0BqPv_csFdS8ZHgSu34BCyy5Rybiw98fK2fJ_3EhxeprSZ929k2Y21wDYMl189T24NxQltyW=s6240" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="6240" data-original-width="4160" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgwN7rvke7Dtr969T7FxgjC9kmoHJ2L48ddKSapBxj2C5IAApiv-CXdaGrZsuhXm2S-GznspzRVaZjVp9aVAJUQCBu6sUIZDFKLcZQKXn0ruPe1UUNV0BqPv_csFdS8ZHgSu34BCyy5Rybiw98fK2fJ_3EhxeprSZ929k2Y21wDYMl189T24NxQltyW=w426-h640" width="426" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /><span style="color: #38761d;"><i>[Another Misty Start at Tent Tarn]</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">The next morning, our last, saw us up very early. Our plan was for most of us to walk all the way out in time for a latish lunch at the Mole Creek pub. Libby was staying one more night, taking advantage of the great weather and the chance of a bit of solitude. It was misty again, and our tents were wet. But with no time to dry them, we simply bundled them away. In theory last day packs are lighter, but ours were wetter and lumpier. Finesse isn’t always a priority when you need to get walking by 7am.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjRgkomYTiCa0TS_HWLLeJE39ayHMhI02_UFBc8cycNpbcJo_LMFPsLTQEHX4uJ1PZE_a2S1sgi74G5SBVPx-OliqA7-mliELe7sTQTlg3O-SSZHyHDdGMNQjXORd9xxWlkqs0GKTmg1x3UyAL38gnBnwlxkYIml8DbzewVFvOOqQiWE_2_q1Vsx2la=s6130" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4087" data-original-width="6130" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjRgkomYTiCa0TS_HWLLeJE39ayHMhI02_UFBc8cycNpbcJo_LMFPsLTQEHX4uJ1PZE_a2S1sgi74G5SBVPx-OliqA7-mliELe7sTQTlg3O-SSZHyHDdGMNQjXORd9xxWlkqs0GKTmg1x3UyAL38gnBnwlxkYIml8DbzewVFvOOqQiWE_2_q1Vsx2la=w400-h266" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /><span style="color: #38761d;"><i>[Tim and Merran's Tent Fly shaken in the sunrise]</i></span><span style="font-family: helvetica; text-align: left;"> </span></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">As we waved Libby farewell, the mist was already lifting, and the views we soon had over Chalice Lake were a sparkling delight. The (theoretically) lighter packs and the gently downhill track made everything feel easier. That was until the very steep descent to the Grail Falls campsite, and the similarly steep ascent out of that valley. Steeply down became the theme thereafter. And if anyone thinks that’s always good news, they haven’t tried a rapid descent at this gradient, with a full pack and ageing knees. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgziLeSOPtbjvZhASFX_th4vEQpncJDvl_yLJHsGsnOXXQll2Gjchwdw08z5SJtLgFpQSwR7l8hHd3Q4O6SC7u8uXkI8eH4s3R8vwRdmnKsYxwCdIjYJlRoP2AX9EDHJTvAR86zEtPSbw5Abh7OCWLNKtxRhjr5RelQlkhSaKCS82gM6XefBOuDdVCU=s6240" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4160" data-original-width="6240" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgziLeSOPtbjvZhASFX_th4vEQpncJDvl_yLJHsGsnOXXQll2Gjchwdw08z5SJtLgFpQSwR7l8hHd3Q4O6SC7u8uXkI8eH4s3R8vwRdmnKsYxwCdIjYJlRoP2AX9EDHJTvAR86zEtPSbw5Abh7OCWLNKtxRhjr5RelQlkhSaKCS82gM6XefBOuDdVCU=w400-h266" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /><span style="color: #38761d;"><i>[Farewell to Chalice Lake]</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">It was an enormous relief to finally break out at the carpark. It was hot, and we were exhausted and thirsty. But if we felt a little sorry for ourselves, we were sorrier for the two walkers we met at the carpark. They were about to walk in the way we’d just walked out. It was just after 1pm, and they had their sights set on reaching Tent Tarn that afternoon. We wished them well, before getting changed into street clothes and driving out to Mole Creek.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> </span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Alas our vision of a luxurious hot counter meal and a cold beer was dashed. We arrived just 10 minutes after the kitchen had closed. There was nothing for it but to enjoy that cold beer with a pie from the bain-marie. Somehow though, after five days of bushwalking food, that managed to seem enough of a feast. I certainly wouldn't count it as a low, not when compared with falling down in the path of terrified/irate snake! </span></p>Nature Scribehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12727570990616097487noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5268236451961589916.post-19425525700485413952022-02-28T16:53:00.007+11:002022-02-28T16:53:46.539+11:00Cathedral Plateau 2: Higher Thoughts<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Q: When is a blue sky not blue? A: When you’re deep in the shade of a forested valley, head down, scrambling to get ready while most others are impatient to leave. The first time I lifted my eyes that morning was when Tim D informed us it was sunny, and would soon be warm. And sure enough, above the thickly tangled myrtle branches, I found that the sky was indeed </span><span style="font-family: helvetica;">blue.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: center; text-decoration: none;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgW_H5pAfiCDehAxxKEb3_lWnAd8uNVyZ0j-Gofa6cvO5zrKj1Lc8bhdhgQ7Em6DBBexY0YCVhpXXB9lEgiSwJCNwCyO7kYnb2w9lKU27wAevcRXGbgigoE87OBHU0bp13ScXEiEHwEs-xm6y5H5KYJ9DfExP8A2JeBKVNLDD6seIzqRBIXc7cXtKYB=s6240" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4160" data-original-width="6240" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgW_H5pAfiCDehAxxKEb3_lWnAd8uNVyZ0j-Gofa6cvO5zrKj1Lc8bhdhgQ7Em6DBBexY0YCVhpXXB9lEgiSwJCNwCyO7kYnb2w9lKU27wAevcRXGbgigoE87OBHU0bp13ScXEiEHwEs-xm6y5H5KYJ9DfExP8A2JeBKVNLDD6seIzqRBIXc7cXtKYB=w400-h266" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /><span style="color: #38761d;"><i>[Are You Ready Yet?]</i></span><span style="font-family: helvetica; text-align: left;"> </span></td></tr></tbody></table></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">The climb out of the Chapter Lake/Grail Falls valley onto the Cathedral Plateau was hardly less steep than if we’d clambered up the falls themselves, though at least we weren’t contending with falling water. It was a full body work out: hands, arms, legs, lungs, heart and mind all toiling to haul us, full packs and all, onto the plateau. But the exertions were over soon enough, and we took a welcome breather on the rock shelf above the falls enjoying the commanding view over Chapter Lake. And yes, it was sunny and warm.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEieCr-I9kDhtxbqzTFVSttR6jAl_d4nB_YYNXNsCYHv_VmO0HoGfXiYlAkh1-R0ftWAm43UCssfXiNjxak_o-ZWOwV-gLgLgUETqHxKffhwPofcoIuBPsmBuHbE3UjFG2zjPe3ewmP-Nf8XUCmwZ5Qge7sCUPdgsi_8JzajEVw37q85x1BObcs_SDeV=s6240" style="display: block; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; padding: 1em 0px;"><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="4160" data-original-width="6240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEieCr-I9kDhtxbqzTFVSttR6jAl_d4nB_YYNXNsCYHv_VmO0HoGfXiYlAkh1-R0ftWAm43UCssfXiNjxak_o-ZWOwV-gLgLgUETqHxKffhwPofcoIuBPsmBuHbE3UjFG2zjPe3ewmP-Nf8XUCmwZ5Qge7sCUPdgsi_8JzajEVw37q85x1BObcs_SDeV=s400" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #38761d;"><i>[Above Grail Falls and Chapter Lake]</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">We still had some work to do, pushing through, up and around the persistent rocky scrub beside Moses Creek. Beyond that we got our first glimpses of a glittering Chalice Lake, a sign we’d arrived on the Cathedral Plateau proper. Perhaps my brain was overheated from the climb, but as I surveyed this many-armed lake, I imagined it as some vast aquatic creature, its tentacles reaching out to harvest the water from higher ground surrounding it. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">We paused for a water and scroggin near the end of the lake, recalling that we’d once camped here. Back then it was a necessary compromise camp site; today its soggy, open, unshaded nature held little appeal. Besides it was only 11am, and the pencil pine forests of Tent Tarn were calling. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgEl2-Kyk8cQ0glVeAYntT-LV49130wzJlCncbNF3zCiOy0kZw9igTxyAkc10ZvB66yaDes-MRmYjHXR483GNQ79z8dLEdyEk4CDvTETwEvnPr7GaNWv2gSdrDJiqbE8RNeE0b7SFaiKvRLsNGvqBYueGGvwWltlLyeSfSCjdi71_gBIdPWlmI_3GI9=s6240" style="display: block; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; padding: 1em 0px;"><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="4160" data-original-width="6240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgEl2-Kyk8cQ0glVeAYntT-LV49130wzJlCncbNF3zCiOy0kZw9igTxyAkc10ZvB66yaDes-MRmYjHXR483GNQ79z8dLEdyEk4CDvTETwEvnPr7GaNWv2gSdrDJiqbE8RNeE0b7SFaiKvRLsNGvqBYueGGvwWltlLyeSfSCjdi71_gBIdPWlmI_3GI9=s400" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #38761d;"><i>[Above Chalice Lake, Mt Rogoona in background]</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">After a little more climbing we arrived at that much smaller and shallower lake. Before choosing our tent sites, a few of us wandered around the perimeter of the lake, seeing if there was a better camping place. Half an hour later we returned to our original place among the pencil pines, convinced that after all this was the perfect place to base ourselves for the next few days and nights.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">By the time we’d set up our tents and gathered water, it was still early in the afternoon. But few of us had the appetite for anything more strenuous than a local wander. Some tried out reflection photography around the shores of the tarn; others washed the sweat of the day from their bodies. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEimJSUPtfBYi4d--SYtDuyaQO7-nWEpdZ9rPSuFGjbzU83Pbt-ZMtf8RkFOb8UtmRISEwk8N6cJDjjmSM9giNSGYI22m5j_PlSXd9DcDXp69JiSzOFPNd5lYknF9GhyFmryf7eh_v9x6HaK7tD1gUwY2Bl2pvTijj4AW5v0EWb0GXtXqYQijPs8j3w7=s6240" style="display: block; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; padding: 1em 0px;"><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="6240" data-original-width="4160" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEimJSUPtfBYi4d--SYtDuyaQO7-nWEpdZ9rPSuFGjbzU83Pbt-ZMtf8RkFOb8UtmRISEwk8N6cJDjjmSM9giNSGYI22m5j_PlSXd9DcDXp69JiSzOFPNd5lYknF9GhyFmryf7eh_v9x6HaK7tD1gUwY2Bl2pvTijj4AW5v0EWb0GXtXqYQijPs8j3w7=w427-h640" width="427" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #38761d;"><i>[TimO reflected in Tent Tarn]</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">And then it was time to relax, have a brew, and ponder some interesting questions together. Why, for instance, were the pencil pines here so prolific? And why were so few of them burned in comparison with nearby places like The Walls of Jerusalem and the Central Plateau? It occurred to me that this cliff-guarded plateau had probably never seen cattle or other hard hooved animals, and therefore the kind of human-initiated burning that historically went with that activity. Certainly we couldn’t think of any accessible way to bring stock up here, making it a kind of land-that-time-forgot. After a good social time over dinner, we dispersed to our tents for an early night. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi0DurwxKMMzopdkogqcbFOM-XoTIqIqb-pqxeUL9Vd6bwAh_8k8BPFwXpA-tDS_CMvrrCOeL7gJFWMW_F3IhWwR2dmMsnD0VryM0BlVxafuORLSDnv25XKqmZ7UDWbMagDoLp7F5GlBMzzNSMyRBxy4_Yl2cVErQRHM2bI2OlprfS-bvqzU-Z3e4cz=s6240" style="display: block; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; padding: 1em 0px;"><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="4160" data-original-width="6240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi0DurwxKMMzopdkogqcbFOM-XoTIqIqb-pqxeUL9Vd6bwAh_8k8BPFwXpA-tDS_CMvrrCOeL7gJFWMW_F3IhWwR2dmMsnD0VryM0BlVxafuORLSDnv25XKqmZ7UDWbMagDoLp7F5GlBMzzNSMyRBxy4_Yl2cVErQRHM2bI2OlprfS-bvqzU-Z3e4cz=s400" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #38761d;"><i>[Relaxing at Tent Tarn]</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">We woke to find a thick mist smothering the plateau. We judged that it would burn off soon enough, so we carried on with our plan to climb Bishop Peak, one of the prominent peaks on the plateau’s western edge. As our route was off-track, the mist wasn’t going to hide any track markers. Besides we had confidence in Tim D’s navigation skills. Before we reached the edge we paused at a strange rock formation, which Tim’s device said was Bishops Mitre. The somewhat curved pyramidal rock looked more like a troll’s head than a bishop’s ceremonial hat, but who were we to criticize an explorer’s fevered imaginings? We paused for the obligatory silly photos before pushing on to the 1378m Bishop Peak. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: center; text-decoration: none;"><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh-CLAALPyxVhLwTViDexUiG7SMcx9pL_hWilatZyLQxStZSjPi5FvgW8bBv7-Of4AWAO-N-F-52DnbjvPo5itTSwW3uNKxZiynPk8QWxwG4V_KoBrHuPSf4M07rxN1NiD4ylZdzIQeLWEr2ce1qe6GT_8VHruy-wARELqcZgAUdfN4ubLBkQFBxJa4=s6240" style="display: block; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; padding: 1em 0px;"><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="4160" data-original-width="6240" height="267" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh-CLAALPyxVhLwTViDexUiG7SMcx9pL_hWilatZyLQxStZSjPi5FvgW8bBv7-Of4AWAO-N-F-52DnbjvPo5itTSwW3uNKxZiynPk8QWxwG4V_KoBrHuPSf4M07rxN1NiD4ylZdzIQeLWEr2ce1qe6GT_8VHruy-wARELqcZgAUdfN4ubLBkQFBxJa4=w400-h267" style="cursor: move;" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #38761d;"><i>[Merran in the Mist near Bishop Peak]</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgHpcaAckNcflu60YGPsyfNqjsq61CVd0yN1i-iBApn0lHN0JakTOAlaMluGEM6tLn__pHurovqWgvrBYLw7AUfj2oWZkfxdjJ3r13NH0zIkbs28lvYZdKV55vd26P7RZhBCYNdxbYRedHLR0SAqSFvcQcHWhIy9Jl_3sW-nBCCGNz4deKU1CZZdrqp=s6240" style="display: block; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; padding: 1em 0px;"><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="6240" data-original-width="4160" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgHpcaAckNcflu60YGPsyfNqjsq61CVd0yN1i-iBApn0lHN0JakTOAlaMluGEM6tLn__pHurovqWgvrBYLw7AUfj2oWZkfxdjJ3r13NH0zIkbs28lvYZdKV55vd26P7RZhBCYNdxbYRedHLR0SAqSFvcQcHWhIy9Jl_3sW-nBCCGNz4deKU1CZZdrqp=w427-h640" width="427" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #38761d;"><i>[Libby obliges at Bishops Mitre]</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Our hoped-for lift hadn’t arrived, so the views were misty, mystical even, as swirling cloud hit the plateau’s edge, obscuring the abyssal 800m plunge to the Mersey River which flowed between us and the Overland Track. Not to be put off we meandered north-east, a little back from the edge, towards a small tarn. From there we aimed for Curate Bluff. Appropriately less grand than the Bishop, and 100m lower in altitude, it still promised a grand view, especially as the clouds were now beginning to thin.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhx78o_A4MZAsPYX6OzLmjwN5Vy_Qprt7fSMnpJslOm-wLe_yRk36IYWnqkQ7kLE7x3Rs5UgDnpjICCf6PG2rlpuoDvDgy9oMcR7af2SErrMomAlMylITlGHvRlg3OV3oF2z7ZY_wZWJbLQB5zUenAu4IPLvh84fBVXvWWc7kq-fTz4CMS4CiJA8rVA=s6240" style="display: block; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; padding: 1em 0px;"><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="4160" data-original-width="6240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhx78o_A4MZAsPYX6OzLmjwN5Vy_Qprt7fSMnpJslOm-wLe_yRk36IYWnqkQ7kLE7x3Rs5UgDnpjICCf6PG2rlpuoDvDgy9oMcR7af2SErrMomAlMylITlGHvRlg3OV3oF2z7ZY_wZWJbLQB5zUenAu4IPLvh84fBVXvWWc7kq-fTz4CMS4CiJA8rVA=s400" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #38761d;"><i>[Jim peers into the misty void from Bishop Peak]</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhqW_pLT4QyOm4fAWL6GixYlOEYwyxKrYmiR1KPdWUvs6IowwMLcrWJPQ1dw3R2Z6_duj3tSj33oODChuCRQp8L95CLwpd90MEGC7iV2ucfuUzuB6i9SpS6T8OC0qPSWp-dJLgJrZ9a_RjqEWYItlbEmIRwXYDsgGzeNQnjzp8iGha2UVlr0TtuK480=s6240" style="display: block; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; padding: 1em 0px;"><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="4160" data-original-width="6240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhqW_pLT4QyOm4fAWL6GixYlOEYwyxKrYmiR1KPdWUvs6IowwMLcrWJPQ1dw3R2Z6_duj3tSj33oODChuCRQp8L95CLwpd90MEGC7iV2ucfuUzuB6i9SpS6T8OC0qPSWp-dJLgJrZ9a_RjqEWYItlbEmIRwXYDsgGzeNQnjzp8iGha2UVlr0TtuK480=s400" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #38761d;"><i>[Evidence of a wombat dance party near the unnamed tarn?]</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">But first we had to wade through some scoparia, never much fun. That done, we scrambled to the top and were rewarded with broad views over the whole range of mountains along the Overland Track. Somewhere north of Pelion I knew my son Stuart was out running as a “sweeper” in the Cradle Mountain Run, a trail running event that sees its leading runners complete the whole 80km Overland Track in less than 8 hours. Stuart’s job was to escort tardy or injured runners back from New Pelion Hut to an early exit via the Arm River.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Closer to home, I soon realized I’d be performing a similar role. Tim D planned to continue on to Vicar Bluff and then Dean Bluff, and had given us an estimate that would have seen us back at Tent Tarn quite late. Jim, already low on energy, wasn’t as keen as the others to do that, so I agreed to join him in returning to home base. For a while the two of us watched as the others receded to ant-like proportions on their scrubby meander towards the distant goal. And then we turned and did our own bit of off-track wandering, up, along, and then steeply down to Tent Tarn.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: center; text-decoration: none;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj8CwBIVtQxk9s7rx0Xc1YIop3sK_21sRYHM-EtwPgXhQ5jEBro3uF8Qi9LyuV4YbUpscqv7oAYWufMJ5fOKSSj07vy726T-rd2LPxU87LGvVXVT9rDWCkciTYHJ7jkJihhLZJ1xjaGMWdNiDPbY5iA12iEf9P7GbQW1umz39lnGsBEbNGn3Hcj8a3m=s6240" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="6240" data-original-width="4160" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj8CwBIVtQxk9s7rx0Xc1YIop3sK_21sRYHM-EtwPgXhQ5jEBro3uF8Qi9LyuV4YbUpscqv7oAYWufMJ5fOKSSj07vy726T-rd2LPxU87LGvVXVT9rDWCkciTYHJ7jkJihhLZJ1xjaGMWdNiDPbY5iA12iEf9P7GbQW1umz39lnGsBEbNGn3Hcj8a3m=w426-h640" width="426" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /><span style="color: #38761d;"><i>[The water supply replenished]</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">By the time we’d pushed our way through the scratchy scrub that eventually gave way to our campsite, we were hot and sweaty. Water collection and a wash were the first order of business, followed by a welcome sit down and a brew. We’d only been sitting for a hour or so when we were surprised to hear <i>coo-eees</i> from the slopes above us. We could just make out Libby waving both arms from a far rock clearing. We were amazed they’d made such good time, although we (rightly) estimated they’d still take another half an hour to get down.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">It seems Tim D had overestimated how long the return trudge to Deans Bluff would take. Regardless the four returnees all agreed on two things. Firstly that the views from the bluff had been stunning; and secondly that they were knackered. Merran demonstrated this by having a quiet snooze in her Helinox chair shortly afterwards. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgFoyLD80uyqgJ9tjVqtV3pj9WAv6FuulcrDVYHzO7fSJPm9CnPKfKgW6wUsv4Loq0g5jcMnkYL__0eedqj-XYJTRCMYMn14g7qQmNeddPJOZITdJlGG76oYEp2J7JesgEntoupJLuifebRTjsWJpuknEzg4NbNvkIzncACgJy5IEtzTsnref14jg8v=s5959" style="display: block; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; padding: 1em 0px;"><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="5959" data-original-width="3973" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgFoyLD80uyqgJ9tjVqtV3pj9WAv6FuulcrDVYHzO7fSJPm9CnPKfKgW6wUsv4Loq0g5jcMnkYL__0eedqj-XYJTRCMYMn14g7qQmNeddPJOZITdJlGG76oYEp2J7JesgEntoupJLuifebRTjsWJpuknEzg4NbNvkIzncACgJy5IEtzTsnref14jg8v=w427-h640" width="427" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #38761d;"><i>[Tim D in relaxation mode at Tent Tarn]</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">While she dreamed, I brought up with the others something I’d long wondered about Tent Tarn. Why, in a place where almost every name has an ecclesiastical connotation, had this tarn ended up with such a plain-Jane name? Was it simply a pragmatic name: this is a tarn where tents can be put up with some shelter? That made some sense, but I put forward a slightly more theological thought. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">The Old Testament tells us that prior to the temple being built in Jerusalem, the Israelites carried a portable tent known as the tabernacle. This symbolised the presence of God, and provided a place of meeting and worship. Was it possible some Bible savvy place-namer had slipped in this obscure reference as a kind of curve-ball name to (almost) go along with the more obvious church-based names? The others were doubtful about that. If that was their intention, why not name it Tabernacle Tarn? Even then, Tim D pointed out, that would make it an Old Testament name, when all the others – Cathedral, Bishop, Dean, Spires, Chalice, Chapter, Cloister, Grail etc – were New Testament or mediaeval names.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">I had to concede that he had a point. After a bit more banter we all eventually retired to our tents. But my mind wasn’t done for the day. It began spiralling beyond nomenclature to higher thoughts. A cathedral, I guess, was supposed to be major centre of worship, a place to inspire both awe and worshipful devotion. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: center; text-decoration: none;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgYI9hxhd84xNjuFDkwcuHbtVCJN-x4HFe9nEZap0ZlvUPRLx1qF8vluU9HmVsSZsfch6Z-eAHHT7p5lOFqUPcBYcJUl6UJI4CFLT9x5wuTlvu0zKStrHfYrPP5toKq6zs8DycwHldLBGShmJnUrlO_xK5p0_iH0l6XvpPF59JngjFUH29Beg7Akg5C=s6240" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4160" data-original-width="6240" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgYI9hxhd84xNjuFDkwcuHbtVCJN-x4HFe9nEZap0ZlvUPRLx1qF8vluU9HmVsSZsfch6Z-eAHHT7p5lOFqUPcBYcJUl6UJI4CFLT9x5wuTlvu0zKStrHfYrPP5toKq6zs8DycwHldLBGShmJnUrlO_xK5p0_iH0l6XvpPF59JngjFUH29Beg7Akg5C=w400-h266" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /><span style="color: #38761d;"><i>[Awe seems an appropriate response to scenes like this at Bishop Peak]</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">But before Cathedrals, before even churches or temples, there had been that simple tent. And as I settled into my own modern version of one, I realised that grand architecture wasn’t necessary for us to experience awe, or to be worshipful. Here, in this sublime place, surrounded by favourite trees, and favourite people, awe and worship seemed a natural response.</span></p></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"></div>Nature Scribehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12727570990616097487noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5268236451961589916.post-70553511934768373432022-02-16T15:55:00.003+11:002022-02-17T10:05:16.545+11:00Cathedral Plateau: Part 1<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; text-align: left;">As you traverse Tasmania’s Overland Track, a walk so renowned for mountains, few peaks are as constant and commanding as Cathedral Mountain. Throughout the middle days of the walk the 1400m mountain variously lurks, looms and towers to the eastern side of the track, its 800m buttresses as much gothic fortress as cathedral. Yet despite this prominence, Cathedral is one mountain that Overland Track walkers never summit. It’s not that it’s all that difficult to climb, but if you were trying it from the Overland Track, any stage Irishman would tell you “<i>I wouldn’t be startin’ from here!</i>”</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; text-align: left;"><br /></span></div><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjhdyoHk_B1ZUpE23I6Ix4aCD64LExkwBDI91PI0KfGEZKy1f5rITyP_OrBNljGHmcvNYCjlyfpZzyJQ8CIe86za_ajEkUqYKQqpO_NsSph_KiCXJ_6sklKPnuOaE1_HQ75vn3mhEHbZ5ZypS7z5pqlEs7Du2W8D3bobiQRRROulUw3lTQfi4Yq9YL0=s6054" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4036" data-original-width="6054" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjhdyoHk_B1ZUpE23I6Ix4aCD64LExkwBDI91PI0KfGEZKy1f5rITyP_OrBNljGHmcvNYCjlyfpZzyJQ8CIe86za_ajEkUqYKQqpO_NsSph_KiCXJ_6sklKPnuOaE1_HQ75vn3mhEHbZ5ZypS7z5pqlEs7Du2W8D3bobiQRRROulUw3lTQfi4Yq9YL0=w400-h266" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /><span style="color: #38761d;"><i>[Cathedral Mountain from the Overland Track, near Kia Ora]</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Rather than a single peak to be “bagged”, Cathedral is actually a substantial plateau, and one to be savoured. It’s almost unique in the highlands of Tasmania, being a virtual mountain/island, with steep access on all sides. (Only the Ben Lomond plateau compares.) Like some vast dolerite cake, albeit one that’s collapsed towards its eastern edge, Cathedral's cliffs guard it against casual tasters.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">With this in mind, a group of us planned to spend five days exploring the plateau, coming at it from the more accessible north-eastern route. Once that was settled, organising it should have been easy, but for one word: pandemic. In the lead up to the February walk Covid hovered over the party, eventually hitting one of our group. Fortunately Libby’s case was mild, and her recovery swift enough for her to join us on the walk, though not without a warning us that she might be slow. That suited the rest of us, who already ceded her about as many years in age as we did kilograms in weight. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Most of us had been to Cathedral before, though not in ideal conditions. There’s more of that story starting <a href="http://www.naturescribe.com/2014/02/a-vigorous-change-part-1.html ">here</a> But crucially TimO had never been there, and his strong inclination to always explore new places made this a must-do. Another plus was the large high pressure system that looked like floating over us for most of the walk, promising perfect plateau wandering weather.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">The four of us from the south first spent a relaxing night at Tim D and Merran’s cottage in Sheffield, getting fuelled up on Tim’s famous homemade pizzas. The next morning we started out fresh and early, as there was no disguising that we had some hard work ahead of us. The walk starts at around 600m altitude, and our first camp, at Grail Falls, is around 1000m. At least the weather was cool, with a solid cloud cover yielding occasional drizzle. We hoped this was just the tail of a cold front, and that it would soon give way to that promised high.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiYkIC6I547ECOhtt5yO49X9VdHcHM-_U_NkWb0QVt6louliyq4y9m-SBMCFGACXoy7FfAiakjOb1k_ol4nTBZ8wjFtKZfdMkPUHv3rCM_DoPXa59yQ74MFRwLWk3hDrle0LJrcXD4Omt4rHbNJss2qtiwJGJ2g31LGcxwOARuLd0zU9vvra_3XN9Rh=s6240" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4160" data-original-width="6240" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiYkIC6I547ECOhtt5yO49X9VdHcHM-_U_NkWb0QVt6louliyq4y9m-SBMCFGACXoy7FfAiakjOb1k_ol4nTBZ8wjFtKZfdMkPUHv3rCM_DoPXa59yQ74MFRwLWk3hDrle0LJrcXD4Omt4rHbNJss2qtiwJGJ2g31LGcxwOARuLd0zU9vvra_3XN9Rh=w400-h266" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /><span style="color: #38761d;"><i>[Jim, Tim and Libby ascend through myrtle forest]</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; text-align: left;">The walk started in a scrubby, weed-infested former logging coupe. Jim added some ‘colour’ by sharing an ear-worm with us. It was an old Marty Robbins song, but the only words he knew were part of the chorus: “cool, clear water.” Even that he managed to misquote, adding a jovial note to our climb. Soon we were walking through more pleasant sclerophyll forest, the drizzle persisting, but not enough for rainjackets. As we gained altitude the colours changed from the grey green of eucalypts to the deep green of myrtle rainforest. Our lunch stop was supposed to be at a small tarn we’d visited before. But if we’d been hoping to top up our water, we were in for a disappointment. The ‘tarn’, empty of water, was instead a large grassy bowl. Still, this “disappearing tarn” was a welcome stop after the steepish climb.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg6fXX5fEApQjcCGE0oYYs1_tcYKMv1HeHBsqr-y9x7vKEGrBtRviOX-2Zp3yx9QnBVD3Ma7p8K-4spjucxnvcm9ZcB8pElw8rdiMwRJNr-WQn6V5c3xhGGhE3wRMIkeTMAb_HwyUifBgmI8OEjs-1Az0OnB6pgH72PrQkE9I-hJow8_UOdabT1aQ0y=s5959" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3973" data-original-width="5959" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg6fXX5fEApQjcCGE0oYYs1_tcYKMv1HeHBsqr-y9x7vKEGrBtRviOX-2Zp3yx9QnBVD3Ma7p8K-4spjucxnvcm9ZcB8pElw8rdiMwRJNr-WQn6V5c3xhGGhE3wRMIkeTMAb_HwyUifBgmI8OEjs-1Az0OnB6pgH72PrQkE9I-hJow8_UOdabT1aQ0y=w400-h266" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /><span style="color: #38761d;"><i>[Jim confirms the tarn is dry]</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Following the break it was a pleasant surprise to soon find ourselves descending towards Chapter Lake and Grail Falls. We’d have been even more delighted had the route been a little less knee-jarring. “Just think, we’ve gotta come back up this!” Jim moaned, and we all filed that away in the “worry about that later” box.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Once we’d set up tents in the stunted myrtles near Grail Falls, TimO started grappling with Tim D’s <i>inReach</i> satellite phone. As Tim and Merran D. would be coming in late, after their work day, they’d suggested we use their sat. phone to send a message about where we’d stopped for the night. We had dobbed TimO in for that job, though using it proved easier said than done. The rest of us had a little mirth at TimO’s expense as he tried to work out the cryptic menu system. “You had ONE JOB Tim!” we called out encouragingly as he fruitlessly pointed the device towards the heavens. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgEr_sPkjN1ZO65wr3sZCvrWcNXiPMwl0P684ZnAXTjewIZML_1-3WEpOHij79u_VFvcr9UwaO43XRRj7COyVPykCFJ_fTibHzT7rSY2AFx_pnY-bv1RsMNXiyGmK06IWLSk0oSD6gurN0ZaP0eHeJwl24hsrfNMtcqtpi-a-WoWCTFG6G-Y-Qc6LMw=s6240" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="6240" data-original-width="4160" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgEr_sPkjN1ZO65wr3sZCvrWcNXiPMwl0P684ZnAXTjewIZML_1-3WEpOHij79u_VFvcr9UwaO43XRRj7COyVPykCFJ_fTibHzT7rSY2AFx_pnY-bv1RsMNXiyGmK06IWLSk0oSD6gurN0ZaP0eHeJwl24hsrfNMtcqtpi-a-WoWCTFG6G-Y-Qc6LMw=w426-h640" width="426" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /><span style="color: #38761d;"><i>[TimO tries to get the satellite phone to connect]</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">The next surprise was our consensus that a little tent-bound nap would go down well. This seemed fair enough for Libby, who was only just back into exercising after Covid. For the rest of us, our justification was that there was no point in eating dinner too early, as Tim and Merran were probably coming in late (though, as we reminded TimO, he hadn’t had any <i>inReach</i> confirmation of this). Also the drizzle was now verging on rain. On the personal level, I realised that for the last few weeks I’d had background anxiety in organising this trip, especially in relation to Covid. But now my whole being was beginning to relax into this wonderfully peaceful place. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Next thing I knew an hour had passed, and Jim was calling us out of our tents for pre-dinner nibbles. Despite our best intentions, pre-dinner soon became dinner, and we would have been ready for bed by 6:30 if we hadn’t decided to explore the nearby lake and falls. We had never seen the falls this dry, with only a small flow tumbling over the precipice. On our last visit the falls were thundering, making conversation difficult.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgQLAtrUXuxHP6jScvV3NnZtAs2zJTHr85aw1QRZdme3iMerEzTj3F4lUyy2MilMO-LKvGdUwZWQlBAi7e-L1I8kQezlTJivXEgv2T3iM6tRI1Ja4bmtgZQI41MCBwjQxd2xzqCbTUh19sJjA_wfuv81oyJt-ZTZ7PRIrd8xhruRjfE3ckqGgXWZv3Y=s6240" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="6240" data-original-width="4160" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgQLAtrUXuxHP6jScvV3NnZtAs2zJTHr85aw1QRZdme3iMerEzTj3F4lUyy2MilMO-LKvGdUwZWQlBAi7e-L1I8kQezlTJivXEgv2T3iM6tRI1Ja4bmtgZQI41MCBwjQxd2xzqCbTUh19sJjA_wfuv81oyJt-ZTZ7PRIrd8xhruRjfE3ckqGgXWZv3Y=w426-h640" width="426" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /><span style="color: #38761d;"><i>[Libby at the base of Grail Falls]</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjxckNyHMLxVlinjhQ4ptXrQ8h3eIJNfddYRzHwF8WcoP3cpBceTx9m_pMEhJ9patyscR10dNb2XJ17ALOPrgYbZwBpwcG-13JL0dKyps0RkKByC8PwWOwdT_qVlbUcl_M4wn5FfK-vlAW2rshjOFr0DCFZWW5zAfzND0rr_r3cLF5ItfEUGGoBPQvY=s6240" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="6240" data-original-width="4160" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjxckNyHMLxVlinjhQ4ptXrQ8h3eIJNfddYRzHwF8WcoP3cpBceTx9m_pMEhJ9patyscR10dNb2XJ17ALOPrgYbZwBpwcG-13JL0dKyps0RkKByC8PwWOwdT_qVlbUcl_M4wn5FfK-vlAW2rshjOFr0DCFZWW5zAfzND0rr_r3cLF5ItfEUGGoBPQvY=w426-h640" width="426" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /><span style="color: #38761d;"><i>[On the shores of Chapter Lake]</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">After our wander we started a ‘book’ on when we reckoned the other two would arrive, chivvying TimO from time to time to see if he’d got a reply to his <i>inReach</i> message yet. He kept muttering in the negative, and gradually, one by one, our guessed times passed. Eventually, around 8:30, we decided we may as well give up and go to our tents. We’d let them rouse us when they got here, if that transpired.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi0Wbs68x1YWIks1whuzSGMtgLv5IzGnysmTLNpSBVlM8CNw9MfVrzKDsgFmESI-qcZac1KIGqMhVlkxStQIY-Jf7tucOP41loVkrl8HDmF5GpelF0br-cz99RH4eQkj4YU2mBUiNRyZAgvd9KCj0vpyjfSNqrR9LqzJmQt44N7fIAtg-LQx3sJSS5I=s6240" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="6240" data-original-width="4160" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi0Wbs68x1YWIks1whuzSGMtgLv5IzGnysmTLNpSBVlM8CNw9MfVrzKDsgFmESI-qcZac1KIGqMhVlkxStQIY-Jf7tucOP41loVkrl8HDmF5GpelF0br-cz99RH4eQkj4YU2mBUiNRyZAgvd9KCj0vpyjfSNqrR9LqzJmQt44N7fIAtg-LQx3sJSS5I=w426-h640" width="426" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /><span style="color: #38761d;"><i>[Tim and Merran arrive early the next morning]</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">As it turned out, that ‘rousing’ didn’t happen until just after 7 the next morning, when Tim and Merran walked into camp before we’d even got up. Their story tumbled out over breakfast. The short of it was that they’d been delayed, and had decided to camp part way in rather than trying to get up here in the dark. We were glad to have the six of us together, without too much drama, ready to walk up to the plateau proper. And as for their reply to TimO’s <i>inReach</i> message, it had apparently gone astray. It seemed it was through no fault of TimO – though that didn’t stop us gently ribbing him about it for the next day or two.</span><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>Nature Scribehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12727570990616097487noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5268236451961589916.post-24654872495935925352021-12-30T16:22:00.000+11:002021-12-30T16:22:56.030+11:00Walking the February Plains 3: Smurfing<p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: verdana; text-align: left;">If yesterday’s discoveries were unplanned, today’s will be deliberate - as long as we’re successful. From the cattle droving days of the mid 19</span><sup style="font-family: verdana; text-align: left;">th</sup><span style="font-family: verdana; text-align: left;"> century, we’re skipping forward more than a century to the final days of the marsupial skin trade. And we’re looking for what’s probably the final hut Basil Steers built. He is often considered the last of the high country snarers in Tasmania. </span></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">The hut we’re hunting was built relatively recently, during our own bushwalking days, in 1985. It’s sometimes known as ‘Basil Steers No. 3’, but is universally nick-named ‘Smurf Hut’. Its construction was partly a protest against the government’s 1984 ban on snaring as a method of taking animals. Given that provenance, Basil built the hut in a hard-to-find location, towards one edge of the Februaries. (Honouring that intention, I will not reveal its exact location here.)<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjE2M81obJetyL_4bzqWwQwhbwvESjAzmC4eLtMDygAbRfSv4JiPbOcnQ5ggq2Ud_1Wkx9QIvI7KadBhSnvzm0GEtZXe9JHxzb4PcLugWhPBx3NjXtLXAH0RT5be649RRMWDw7uDf9Dx04THzjtDab_Q8b2cq2ALYjEF2tKoOs0kpjCzoLP3AgRerMo=s6240" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4160" data-original-width="6240" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjE2M81obJetyL_4bzqWwQwhbwvESjAzmC4eLtMDygAbRfSv4JiPbOcnQ5ggq2Ud_1Wkx9QIvI7KadBhSnvzm0GEtZXe9JHxzb4PcLugWhPBx3NjXtLXAH0RT5be649RRMWDw7uDf9Dx04THzjtDab_Q8b2cq2ALYjEF2tKoOs0kpjCzoLP3AgRerMo=w400-h266" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /><span style="color: #38761d;"><i>[Tim points the way, with Overland Track mountains ahead]</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: verdana;">We set off quite early. The sky is predominantly blue, and the day promises to be warm. We by-pass Lake How, heading more or less south towards another lake. I naively assume it’s Lake Steers, which isn’t too far from our destination. It’s looking like a cruisy day. But not for the last time today Tim has to disabuse me of my belief. He points to some far-distant wooded hills, and tells me we’re headed towards them. We by-pass the unnamed lake, but still have to traverse some boggy ground getting across February Creek and its shallow valley.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjkF3pdbW8T0OYPvzEvIanGmK98vFNKJvHk8kfVBPu6rVorTJjVOqWWjC2vkQr-Aj_Ll-mVfbm5Gxgi0XGKjKGngeg-FRjaSuWIBZ1L1HBIxlGIUZ0SnPNzDeA7hc_FlcSlTJ3GVAyr2MWSxRRL5lUCzDsVqMaCM_-toG56PwzNEVCug7FDbwJ4OOSV=s6240" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4160" data-original-width="6240" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjkF3pdbW8T0OYPvzEvIanGmK98vFNKJvHk8kfVBPu6rVorTJjVOqWWjC2vkQr-Aj_Ll-mVfbm5Gxgi0XGKjKGngeg-FRjaSuWIBZ1L1HBIxlGIUZ0SnPNzDeA7hc_FlcSlTJ3GVAyr2MWSxRRL5lUCzDsVqMaCM_-toG56PwzNEVCug7FDbwJ4OOSV=w400-h266" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /><span style="color: #38761d;"><i>[February Creek, with Mt Pillinger on the horizon]</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Bit by bit we close in on those distant hills. Naggingly persistent feet manage this feat surprisingly well, although often at a cost. For an hour or more we’re high-stepping over knee high grasses and sedges. It’s not difficult walking, but it’s wearing. I’m encouraged when I finally see on Tim’s device that we’re closing in on the red dot marking the hut’s location. All the way I’ve been reassured by the fact that Tim has been to Smurf Hut before – hence the red dot. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">What I don’t realise until we enter some gnarly scrub is that Tim has never come to the hut from the northern Februaries. Rather he’s previously approached it from the Arm River/Wurragarra Creek direction. When you’re in bauera, tea tree and scoparia scrub, being told you’re “maybe 200m from the hut” isn’t as comforting as it may sound. After some sweat-inducing wading through said scrub, Tim concedes that we are too far west. We need to back-track. However we’re unable to stomach a complete retreat, so we choose a “tactical withdrawal", going diagonally uphill. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">We finally come out of the scrub into a pencil pine forest. This is promising, as Basil Steers and many other trappers/snarers preferred to use pines like these for building huts. Eventually we descend into the dim green of a myrtle rainforest, an even better sign, as Tim’s memory is that Smurf Hut is hidden deep in such a forest. And so it proves, as we eventually clamber down a small cliff, scramble over a series of mossy logs, and find the humble timber hut.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgREjPHhUGEYd0YrsBk7YyzeqY0bKchwkFKbz97gjmLKrjuLzxOWeQNAQdv5JqilgqKrmfrdzVFDxQSdvdD3YnFnyxUs8Ez5f4CO536wx-e_p2BTod6MQULaqJ9FWSg_awvvID9I3sHEy88m3GwtnNiJJDD3TIlYFhrfhOUNIxJPJvrd_qDL_A-f7wS=s6240" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4160" data-original-width="6240" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgREjPHhUGEYd0YrsBk7YyzeqY0bKchwkFKbz97gjmLKrjuLzxOWeQNAQdv5JqilgqKrmfrdzVFDxQSdvdD3YnFnyxUs8Ez5f4CO536wx-e_p2BTod6MQULaqJ9FWSg_awvvID9I3sHEy88m3GwtnNiJJDD3TIlYFhrfhOUNIxJPJvrd_qDL_A-f7wS=w400-h266" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /><span style="color: #38761d;"><i>[Smurf Hut, with Tim outside]</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Its name has always piqued my curiosity, but as we stoop to enter the hut, it explains itself. Everything about the hut is diminutive: the doorway; the size of the logs stored in the entryway; the height of the ceiling; the three wee bunks. It would be perfect for smurfs*. Indeed Tim and I agree it would be ideal for our friend Jim. Not only does he love a hut, especially one with a fire, but he is also – how shall we put this – a vertically-challenged man. The four foot long bunks would be perfect for him.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjywlIHwhbtcv94TC7HQNkDh72-DEGQqgjmFEB9mgaAkoWbqd7dWMTR4e5zBg-EQ_7QWJX9WKeha37EobDYYX6bGCsmFpAY25ZRjIc6vByBwe3q52hGmXjYV6ZLCx3YiTItiqjUMCbAD9U0yo_oCAPHl8jSSNGN_fI9blFtkP28cZuM3KmZVSKR_3E9=s6240" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4160" data-original-width="6240" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjywlIHwhbtcv94TC7HQNkDh72-DEGQqgjmFEB9mgaAkoWbqd7dWMTR4e5zBg-EQ_7QWJX9WKeha37EobDYYX6bGCsmFpAY25ZRjIc6vByBwe3q52hGmXjYV6ZLCx3YiTItiqjUMCbAD9U0yo_oCAPHl8jSSNGN_fI9blFtkP28cZuM3KmZVSKR_3E9=w400-h266" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /><span style="color: #38761d;"><i>[Tim inside the </i><span style="caret-color: rgb(56, 118, 29);"><i>diminutive hut]</i></span></span></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">We lunch outside the hut, soothed after our exertions by the cool quiet of the forest. After lunch I wander around the hut’s exterior. According to the late historian, Simon Cubit, the hut was never used as a skin shed, and certainly the walls show none of the signs of skins having been nailed there for drying or tanning.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">We’ve learned lessons from our outward journey, and set off for our home lake via a less scrubby route. Although it’s still a long haul, all of it off-track, I’m pleasantly surprised to get back by mid-afternoon. While Tim soaks his hot feet in the lake I just sit back and enjoy being becalmed. Had we actually been sailing, it would have been a quiet afternoon. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEim9YVAm8lWBL3hU6qSyHJaTPITud1ODX3smzRLM6Y1TIyDUopv-ixjCj_v3SXMK2ydStWYtQlGiUvE3N1jb_pvBHmXIm7W4Z0I6UDfwMZiGeW01TUc4ifbqW6_1W8CS0zfKvjK4EMJueYPAMxaFzavkZa-sQjYC9zyzf-R8tBBdb1Y6gXg96QSYizq=s6240" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4160" data-original-width="6240" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEim9YVAm8lWBL3hU6qSyHJaTPITud1ODX3smzRLM6Y1TIyDUopv-ixjCj_v3SXMK2ydStWYtQlGiUvE3N1jb_pvBHmXIm7W4Z0I6UDfwMZiGeW01TUc4ifbqW6_1W8CS0zfKvjK4EMJueYPAMxaFzavkZa-sQjYC9zyzf-R8tBBdb1Y6gXg96QSYizq=w400-h266" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /><span style="color: #38761d;"><i>[Tim cools his feet]</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">There’s just the occasional puff of wind, and the lake is still enough to reveal one further secret. On the far side we can see the tell-tale ripples of a platypus at work. Occasionally it surfaces, bill, nose and eyes briefly visible before it dives again. I am in awe of these amazing creatures, not least because they’re one of only two egg laying mammals in the world (along with echidnas). I’m also astonished how they’ve managed to occupy this small lake that’s far distant from any other reliable body of water. I once watched a platypus toddle over land, and concluded it was unlikely to set any land speed records. Yet here they are, as they are in so many isolated lakes, tarns and creeks in Tasmania.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjRE5HkHfnWCSxA-mIolsdcj89svWiy-bWDWH_OnFwrrYCfKDp_LhwrTVGlmYWiQsLmNmlL8iH4vFB1UvmGcJDji6qiqf0a0wkooFhh_aYhTTrcIDRdn9hgeaF46hTHfsYxgtZPeyb1iowLRQJ02n88W5nQRbKOhdXJR6Y8AOZplabPQRkk32B8MA8M=s3072" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2304" data-original-width="3072" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjRE5HkHfnWCSxA-mIolsdcj89svWiy-bWDWH_OnFwrrYCfKDp_LhwrTVGlmYWiQsLmNmlL8iH4vFB1UvmGcJDji6qiqf0a0wkooFhh_aYhTTrcIDRdn9hgeaF46hTHfsYxgtZPeyb1iowLRQJ02n88W5nQRbKOhdXJR6Y8AOZplabPQRkk32B8MA8M=w400-h300" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /><span style="color: #38761d;"><i>[A platypus walking overland]</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">After dinner I dig out some of my writing and read it aloud to Tim. On this walk, and earlier by phone, we’d been discussing some of my lock-down work about ‘the spirit of bushwalking’. It’s good to read it, albeit to an audience of one. It’s even better to discuss some of the knotty issues with someone who shares my perspective on walking and spirituality. Tim offers some helpful suggestions, and we toss around ideas, agreeing that there will be on-going discussions. I feel encouraged to keep working on it. Being detached from the everyday seems yet again to clear the mind.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Gradually the blue day morphs into a dark jewel of an evening, and our honest day’s walk helps sleep to come swiftly. When the light of our final day leaks into our campsite, it reveals a mirror-flat lake, enticing us out for an early start. We have one more item on our agenda: to pick up the trail of cairns from day 2, and see if we can follow the old February Plains Stock Route out.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEibhSZkqhiFFGY84AlwYx6UK7JGYeyw6T01w0gLY_32ygrxHjzTncfJmxJ4SE2nkGMUnNiN_JIjYhm-o1JMaLfdsLDWRNbdTXTTCxmZkJJLvvqM4BwUBFCeC7p_11g_f2XbjHDSjzB7U2Zf8s3PpOPSBnPL2wLpvMBWWNmyyQ3fTCACCYfWs0Ia-3vl=s6240" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4160" data-original-width="6240" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEibhSZkqhiFFGY84AlwYx6UK7JGYeyw6T01w0gLY_32ygrxHjzTncfJmxJ4SE2nkGMUnNiN_JIjYhm-o1JMaLfdsLDWRNbdTXTTCxmZkJJLvvqM4BwUBFCeC7p_11g_f2XbjHDSjzB7U2Zf8s3PpOPSBnPL2wLpvMBWWNmyyQ3fTCACCYfWs0Ia-3vl=w400-h266" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /><span style="color: #38761d;"><i>[It's perfectly calm on our departure day]</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">After all our years walking together, I should be aware that Tim’s journeys of discovery are rarely short-cuts. But as I’ve also been bitten by the exploration bug, the two of us happily fan out and scan for cairns. We walk far further west than we would otherwise need to, but are rewarded by the discovery of a series of cairns heading north. We follow these to Sardine Creek, near which we find some remnants of droving days. We feel sure that we have indeed been on the old February Plains Stock Route. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgooNY2RLd3KjhHRDEVTuLPcxF4tFW73-gFk6J0-qNrT-oDLBHEHqlYwFV-EuXXDuKk5JuL8aHJThAIZZLK0basNbmDAhjX6pLRbsc9i42u7vt-9rmpzzGKDcO8lGfW2vg8CQ4IUNzRvAPxmx3sAJH7DCfxteTE_U2xeO5EtO24xYtVuQH_kqjgSJvg=s6240" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4160" data-original-width="6240" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgooNY2RLd3KjhHRDEVTuLPcxF4tFW73-gFk6J0-qNrT-oDLBHEHqlYwFV-EuXXDuKk5JuL8aHJThAIZZLK0basNbmDAhjX6pLRbsc9i42u7vt-9rmpzzGKDcO8lGfW2vg8CQ4IUNzRvAPxmx3sAJH7DCfxteTE_U2xeO5EtO24xYtVuQH_kqjgSJvg=w400-h266" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /><span style="color: #38761d;"><i>[Another cairn on the February Plains Stock Route]</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg4HFcYd-H0HGI2KtRKpn941UBav_0kuLS-U9x6BHombmJkBJ0Hf0T4UoKCnfVDWUdVGCjIaoITaQx_qu6RVYaf7_R8hP0Fl1FBfjXEBobSzWDFuio-1E7w6oRT8ykoJ-4hOQWV58X_cc9Q5A0Vady7X8jmARjgr34nHlxJnGrhMFKXu3hVeKgZYPSK=s6018" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4012" data-original-width="6018" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg4HFcYd-H0HGI2KtRKpn941UBav_0kuLS-U9x6BHombmJkBJ0Hf0T4UoKCnfVDWUdVGCjIaoITaQx_qu6RVYaf7_R8hP0Fl1FBfjXEBobSzWDFuio-1E7w6oRT8ykoJ-4hOQWV58X_cc9Q5A0Vady7X8jmARjgr34nHlxJnGrhMFKXu3hVeKgZYPSK=w400-h266" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /><span style="color: #38761d;"><i>[Old fencing wire, possibly from the cattle droving days]</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: verdana; text-align: left;">But now it’s time to leave off being explorers and head out for a substantial – meaning <b><i>not</i></b> dehydrated – lunchtime meal. </span><span style="font-family: verdana; text-align: left;">We cut down valley to pick up the old (locked) road that comes down the west side of the Februaries, close to Basil Steers Huts 1 and 2. We’ve been off track for nearly four days, so it’s strange to be moving fast on a solid surface. By the time we get back to the car, our feet are hot. But soon we’re driving off, and Tim announces a supreme idea. When he gets phone reception, he pulls over to ring his wife Merran. Without him even prompting, she graciously offers to make home-made hamburgers back at their place. Any aches and pains are so quickly eclipsed, that Tim and I do a happy little smurf dance before driving home. </span></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhfRiTnUuEtpMTsiIFXKEHShINLXkaO4GmTOLt6TjzxAQBtgsnEBuF5kT1jPDSrjcxmp1W33SOlrldGk2tWCSiDX8cYNO7Sfa5DSSuqN5U1toD7RMQUWKbsrKLgVUtMaSCMuCR1kKGZYSY_Dl1qojyoEv02baJi9sBZJV6GSOtT1nlDh3pc6-0SxI1-=s6240" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="6240" data-original-width="4160" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhfRiTnUuEtpMTsiIFXKEHShINLXkaO4GmTOLt6TjzxAQBtgsnEBuF5kT1jPDSrjcxmp1W33SOlrldGk2tWCSiDX8cYNO7Sfa5DSSuqN5U1toD7RMQUWKbsrKLgVUtMaSCMuCR1kKGZYSY_Dl1qojyoEv02baJi9sBZJV6GSOtT1nlDh3pc6-0SxI1-=w426-h640" width="426" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /><span style="color: #38761d;"><i>[A Smurf-blue sky bids us farewell]</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><p><i style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt;">* </span></i><i style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt;">For those who don’t know, s</span></i><i style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; color: #202122; font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt;">murfs are fictional creatures from the mind of Belgian comic writer “Peyo”. Small, blue and human-like, they live in mushroom-shaped houses in the forest.</span></i> </p>Nature Scribehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12727570990616097487noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5268236451961589916.post-79320435969687496782021-12-16T17:10:00.001+11:002021-12-20T12:15:13.149+11:00Walking the February Plains 2: Discovery<p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">We’re lulled to sleep by a frog symphony. Urged on by their own inscrutable drives, they variously bleat, creak and croak through the night to an audience that wouldn’t normally include us. But we’re here, and what a privilege it is to have these calls dampen the din of our normal lives.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The morning breaks fine, with a cloud cover that harbours no threats. We have a slow brew and breakfast, chatting easily about many things before eventually turning to the topic of “where to now?” South is the general answer, with maybe a visit to Lake How and a wander to a high point a little west of there.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi1PbTguAf9wVt_PwLT4kqaYTMXGZ_0hPk5u0FrEt5VkI5_E_v_KBv85OB6Q8bKaE3IVPGTjozKvicOBnIyluNX2tU7pUY6aSB88uZXx5mKLNEwd-3oxBrjtIdYEh5O1oxm_b6yv0axOKqby97VComvKHD6ly9K9RRFay6_cgF3wwjxAVbgIXQ0eRbH=s6240" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4160" data-original-width="6240" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi1PbTguAf9wVt_PwLT4kqaYTMXGZ_0hPk5u0FrEt5VkI5_E_v_KBv85OB6Q8bKaE3IVPGTjozKvicOBnIyluNX2tU7pUY6aSB88uZXx5mKLNEwd-3oxBrjtIdYEh5O1oxm_b6yv0axOKqby97VComvKHD6ly9K9RRFay6_cgF3wwjxAVbgIXQ0eRbH=w400-h266" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /><span style="color: #38761d;"><i>Tim eyes the peaks of the Overland Track</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">We take a meandering route to the lake, heading first to “the grandstand”. We’ve visited this high point before, and been stunned by the views. Again it doesn’t disappoint. We can clearly see almost every mountain of the Overland Track, from Cradle to Olympus. To the south-east are the high points of the Walls of Jerusalem, and north and east many more mountains, including Tim’s home peak of Mount Roland.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhLFUEOnJvK-1pSauxirIH4vpH1T0LHMVFSaGJWEINKHxvzBfiSq49V8AOW7uyKWgu1VOiXsKHcNPkOKzt5DmRDeo08pENHg37yL-21eDmBXs3lb7XCvwiVDpC9dWA2mRXAfdpeXXRdeLuysubT61SvpAo7rswpr05J0LBSr5zBPncXIn6II312Brt6=s6240" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4160" data-original-width="6240" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhLFUEOnJvK-1pSauxirIH4vpH1T0LHMVFSaGJWEINKHxvzBfiSq49V8AOW7uyKWgu1VOiXsKHcNPkOKzt5DmRDeo08pENHg37yL-21eDmBXs3lb7XCvwiVDpC9dWA2mRXAfdpeXXRdeLuysubT61SvpAo7rswpr05J0LBSr5zBPncXIn6II312Brt6=w400-h266" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /><span style="color: #38761d;"><i>Reflections in a pool beside Lake How</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Within an hour we’re standing by the shallow shores of Lake How. As pleasant as it is, we’re glad we didn’t tried to camp here. It’s a shallow scoop in a soggy, grassy plain, unprotected by bush or trees. We have a scroggin break and discuss our onward route. I’m pretty much in Tim’s hands, having not been this far before. We decide to climb a nearby hill and the ridge beyond it, to reach the probable high point of the Februaries, to the west of the lake.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg__5DXBzJwlvrDHj--fi4i-COIjDr-J-p2ZOMjiv11lpdaTrCTuvsgIr8rVwzOF-B9X4PPg-PrRD87VnS_ohNeZCDMeou1OLWHi-EeRzFSpl2zCPbh1i_Frcjq2Qj-Fn_GRLGm28WEx3vXfsI7YUFlkvzLagxlGGS8EJc7W147HZSh1asB4V-Cb5SX=s6240" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4160" data-original-width="6240" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg__5DXBzJwlvrDHj--fi4i-COIjDr-J-p2ZOMjiv11lpdaTrCTuvsgIr8rVwzOF-B9X4PPg-PrRD87VnS_ohNeZCDMeou1OLWHi-EeRzFSpl2zCPbh1i_Frcjq2Qj-Fn_GRLGm28WEx3vXfsI7YUFlkvzLagxlGGS8EJc7W147HZSh1asB4V-Cb5SX=w400-h266" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /><span style="color: #38761d;"><i>Towards the Overland Track from the Februaries' high point</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">When we get there we again find exhilarating views. The deep valley of the Forth River lies between us and the Overland Track. Our equivalent latitude is well south of Barn Bluff, which we can see clearly. We stop for a very early lunch, and reminisce about walks we’ve done in these nearby mountains. For Tim it’s a significant anniversary: three years since a cardiac arrest on the side of Mount Roland almost ended his life. As we look at Barn Bluff we recall him having, in hindsight, what was probably a warning episode. When we were climbing the steep bluff, Tim was straggling behind when he would normally be leading. At the time he put it down to having given blood the day before we left. Now, by-pass and other surgery behind him, Tim is back to his best, and I’m grateful to be the one straggling behind.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">We decide today will be a short day, and amble downslope, thinking we’ll loop back to our home lake for an early finish. But as we cross the shallow valley above Lake How, we make an odd discovery. On the valley flanks, on no obvious route, is a large rock cairn. We puzzle over it, wondering if it’s random, or linked to others. As we walk out of the valley we find another and then, a little further on, two more.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I’ve thought for some time about Frédéric Gros’ theory: that walking through such landscapes detaches us from daily trivia. I’ve certainly experienced the truth of that, but I’ve also pondered what happens to us <i>after </i>we’re detached. Gros hints at us then becoming attached to that which matters. We’ve experienced some of that at our lakeside camp, and elsewhere on this walk. But I think the freed up mind is also now open to uncovering – or discovering – things which have been hidden from us by our cluttered minds.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; -webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; orphans: auto; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-size-adjust: auto; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: auto; word-spacing: 0px;"></p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgkPYSPp37HOzEQdm3uF0Fa-xrUHqJWF0ZdSgyvna_nlLmeMIocJl_ndUYWdvZ3QsLFCsediFILmAuUYvg0YO0ZzFWT205pv3FgrZCGsNgczXU0eIZFwiE8EMTgkA1o5_eBvtNUPqsVa2ZKuRYdoKT24kSxpj1NMvaXayoZUKHjvHMxiEk7NXX0vUqK=s6240" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4160" data-original-width="6240" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgkPYSPp37HOzEQdm3uF0Fa-xrUHqJWF0ZdSgyvna_nlLmeMIocJl_ndUYWdvZ3QsLFCsediFILmAuUYvg0YO0ZzFWT205pv3FgrZCGsNgczXU0eIZFwiE8EMTgkA1o5_eBvtNUPqsVa2ZKuRYdoKT24kSxpj1NMvaXayoZUKHjvHMxiEk7NXX0vUqK=w400-h266" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /><span style="color: #38761d;"><i>One of the probable Stock Route cairns</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: Calibri;">So here we are, uncluttered by the thought of having to follow a track – there are virtually no walking tracks in the Februaries – and we discover a track! Actually it’s a route, as there’s no clear ground sign of people or animals walking this way. But Tim’s straight onto a theory. We may have discovered an old stock route: perhaps the February Plains Stock Route. If we’re right this route, pioneered by the Field family, dates from the mid 1800s. It was used to drive cattle from the Borradaile Plain through the February Plains to the Pelion Plains. Tim thinks he has seen one or two of these cairns on a previous trip, but we are now finding a continuous series of them.</span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; -webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-family: Calibri; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: auto; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-size-adjust: auto; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: auto; word-spacing: 0px;"></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; -webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: "Times New Roman"; letter-spacing: normal; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; orphans: auto; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-size-adjust: auto; text-transform: none; widows: auto; word-spacing: 0px;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhRQPj8k0fHK63PSurDFiF9O9N8pEWC-M5PB5FFHO19Riq1hmpR7o8K7YQuZaBl44R82TOPC_iq2P8ccihk34WpCv6uDDQkToDTdBL8nTStRwL7ODozai_GmC1dfgLJ0fvTPpDDsMXQuF5u1ucegWT52oUYfDecRslZE5JFl2pMsJP8kdFct3E604Wa=s6240" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="6240" data-original-width="4160" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhRQPj8k0fHK63PSurDFiF9O9N8pEWC-M5PB5FFHO19Riq1hmpR7o8K7YQuZaBl44R82TOPC_iq2P8ccihk34WpCv6uDDQkToDTdBL8nTStRwL7ODozai_GmC1dfgLJ0fvTPpDDsMXQuF5u1ucegWT52oUYfDecRslZE5JFl2pMsJP8kdFct3E604Wa=w426-h640" style="cursor: move;" width="426" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /><span style="color: #38761d;"><i>Tim logs another possible cairn</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">We dutifully stop at each one, and Tim enters their GPS coordinates into his device. We photograph some too, noting that they’re far less elaborate, and less covered with lichen, than the cairns we followed on Ritters Track, east of the Walls of Jerusalem, last year. You can read more here:</span><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span><a href="http://www.naturescribe.com/2021/04/central-plateau-variations-part-3.html" style="font-family: Calibri;">Ritters Track</a></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">This kind of discovery becomes quite addictive, and we describe a wider arc than we otherwise might have as we walk on to “just one more” cairn. Eventually we cut back to our home lake, but with the idea that we may try to resume the cairn search on our last day. However when we get back to our tents, Tim’s explorer blood is still bubbling. Given it seems to be a day of discovery, he’s all for trying to find signs of another 19</span><sup style="font-family: Calibri;">th</sup><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> century </span><span style="font-family: Calibri;">track, that of E.G. Innes. This is thought to be on the eastern edge of the Februaries, perhaps a few hundred metres from our lake. By now I’ve taken my boots off, so I only follow part of the way, and soon bow out to photograph the nearby flora. Given their subtle beauty, that will be discovery enough for me.</span> </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhsww1IIOSSsHUNQpefR4EyntRF6Aro8-EiGPm5uP-bY52OG3VDqQCKhNJQ9J8kgh2S8M5SyBZokEl32PqfbEQ-Y-TzTWj3uIZ1egRpopbCLMs_IGOsUvckRGhC5446An2H5wJxX4JAS2iuSAlnmPieYtBGRBCigPnGC3D0lrWaxEkmY2NW7pHX8d-7=s5959" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="5959" data-original-width="3973" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhsww1IIOSSsHUNQpefR4EyntRF6Aro8-EiGPm5uP-bY52OG3VDqQCKhNJQ9J8kgh2S8M5SyBZokEl32PqfbEQ-Y-TzTWj3uIZ1egRpopbCLMs_IGOsUvckRGhC5446An2H5wJxX4JAS2iuSAlnmPieYtBGRBCigPnGC3D0lrWaxEkmY2NW7pHX8d-7=w426-h640" width="426" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /><span face="system-ui, -apple-system, system-ui, ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif" style="background-color: white; font-size: 15px; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2;"><span style="color: #38761d;"><i>Rubus gunnianus (Tasmanian alpine raspberry)</i></span></span></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"></p>Nature Scribehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12727570990616097487noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5268236451961589916.post-32074109499296041042021-12-14T12:07:00.000+11:002021-12-14T12:07:28.856+11:00Walking the February Plains 1: Detachment<blockquote>
<i><span style="font-size: medium;">Being in the presence of what absolutely endures detaches us from that
ephemeral news for which we are usually agog.</span></i>
</blockquote><p> <span> <span> </span></span>– Frédéric Gros (‘A Philosophy of Walking’)</p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">Of all the reasons we hoist a pack and walk into the wild, getting detached from
our usual lives is close to a universal. When the walking starts, so does the
slow shedding of the skin of our bustle. </span><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">Before this walk both Tim and I had been burdened in different ways. In Tim’s case
some difficult issues in his work as a consultant wanted to slip into his pack. In
my case the ups and downs of a
writer’s life had me doubting the direction my work was going. It was time to
detach! </span></span><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><br /></span></div><div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh5R9VuHtBi42388Q0IrrbEnABU0jZqK8vSpw2nnoH4dBiNoyi6CAqlhlPG3c3voGFiaJol2UVjaPzUtKFJ9HAZucZbqzQaJSk4v3EBrCqxLoTdwKT-bvjC-zWwpRZOBkh4Sy_dBpdabtMvCniKNQ9MUnfWdCI_tv7gSK6T4mLIBnqxfPuK9ixS4dTt=s6240" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4160" data-original-width="6240" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh5R9VuHtBi42388Q0IrrbEnABU0jZqK8vSpw2nnoH4dBiNoyi6CAqlhlPG3c3voGFiaJol2UVjaPzUtKFJ9HAZucZbqzQaJSk4v3EBrCqxLoTdwKT-bvjC-zWwpRZOBkh4Sy_dBpdabtMvCniKNQ9MUnfWdCI_tv7gSK6T4mLIBnqxfPuK9ixS4dTt=w400-h266" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /><span style="color: #38761d;"><i>Where we'd rather be<br /><br /></i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">So preoccupied have we been that it’s only at the last minute that we
choose the February Plains as our destination. It’s not the glamour choice for
walkers in search of lofty peaks. It not only lacks those, it’s also deficient
in such other drawcards as lakes and forests. And over the years this sub-alpine
upland, rarely higher than 1150m, has been grazed, mined, burned and otherwise
given grief. Especially hard were the wildfires of 2016, which have left swathes
of its slow-growing bush stark and grey, adding to its scarred and weather-worn
visage. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><br /></span></div><div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgtiCuiVGsNDcMRxPap48eKqTgbTrawSua8ssDswWSnxHyajvVAxW2v6faprgo8zr8EzFs_zqYtjF6_CvkE2JKJBiLLU9dL_JuZsyCjp_Cac38eSc_c5ePwH0yeY-cvg3U3eNAJPW_g1Ww6yZhE3PrFsRRuvLNF7zKU3WIbsKknvt-P4458D0lAojEm=s6240" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4160" data-original-width="6240" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgtiCuiVGsNDcMRxPap48eKqTgbTrawSua8ssDswWSnxHyajvVAxW2v6faprgo8zr8EzFs_zqYtjF6_CvkE2JKJBiLLU9dL_JuZsyCjp_Cac38eSc_c5ePwH0yeY-cvg3U3eNAJPW_g1Ww6yZhE3PrFsRRuvLNF7zKU3WIbsKknvt-P4458D0lAojEm=w400-h266" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /><span style="color: #38761d;"><i>Ready for off!</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">For all that, we know the Februaries have a way of wheedling their way into your heart. So we’re smiling as we slip on our packs and set off into what
is still, a sign soon reminds us, part of the Tasmanian Wilderness World
Heritage Area. It’s my third trip here, while Tim has lost count of his many
visits to what is almost part of his back yard. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><br /></span></div><div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEipR8hD5Nu7yKxzVLAGeVtIdqbR1gak0LbhlWErYQjCzItJyXlKMoNbAQ8ZYo1SPuv1xAgeW1qG2TAKixq1cwLD83QODTBPGYozGfadPRRLoEglqKFVP7Q6SIk23PiBnhiFMI3KIMY_iOyU7X87SOGzawVbX9mHRXlOio4fcYtyCy1e_w2nRh2gs7VM=s5820" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3880" data-original-width="5820" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEipR8hD5Nu7yKxzVLAGeVtIdqbR1gak0LbhlWErYQjCzItJyXlKMoNbAQ8ZYo1SPuv1xAgeW1qG2TAKixq1cwLD83QODTBPGYozGfadPRRLoEglqKFVP7Q6SIk23PiBnhiFMI3KIMY_iOyU7X87SOGzawVbX9mHRXlOio4fcYtyCy1e_w2nRh2gs7VM=w400-h266" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /><span style="color: #38761d;"><i>A lunch stop at Basil Steers #2</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">While the detachment has begun,
I soon find it’s not possible to leave behind my relative lack of walking
fitness. The amount of ascent is low, but I’m still puffing more than I should.
I’m glad when we reach one of the snarer’s huts built by Basil Steers and family
in 1974. We’ve been here before and, after signing the log book, we enjoy a
leisurely lunch in its well cared-for vicinity. We marvel afresh at how
fortunate the hut was to survive 2016’s fires. Its forest surrounds are still
blackened. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">Wildflowers are one beneficiary of the fires. Shortly after leaving
the hut we come across carpets of ground-hugging <i>Hibbertia procumbens</i>, their
bright flowers extravagantly strewn across our way like precious confetti.
There’s no actual track. We just wind our way around bogs and scrubbier
sections, sometimes high-stepping over thicker bush. Once we’ve got our rhythm,
we settle into stories of past trips here, including Tim’s encounter with a
giant tiger snake that chased him off its territory. I spy one of the hills we
climbed last trip, recalling who was with us and what we’d talked about. I
express my relief that we’re not climbing it again today with a full pack. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><br /></span></div><div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj1cqMqC2qf-_Nvp4sV4BD67o5Xx_5f9Aqu71eX_kqUBGVAhN6Fb8f5npWr9e_q1Ek967Ki3Qc2VO3Q3crt7ZqlWkcUo0VPp7-vWY9MQC-9aNFGGetqgaZ1wteexXWGKiO8d6Nmr0FcuJwG25Ct_bjJyNbTDERk3P5YxL5WRFYocIaAbKMPTNZuewau=s6240" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4160" data-original-width="6240" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj1cqMqC2qf-_Nvp4sV4BD67o5Xx_5f9Aqu71eX_kqUBGVAhN6Fb8f5npWr9e_q1Ek967Ki3Qc2VO3Q3crt7ZqlWkcUo0VPp7-vWY9MQC-9aNFGGetqgaZ1wteexXWGKiO8d6Nmr0FcuJwG25Ct_bjJyNbTDERk3P5YxL5WRFYocIaAbKMPTNZuewau=w400-h266" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /><span style="color: #38761d;"><i>A carpet of Hibbertia in bloom</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">A
couple of hours after lunch we reach a familiar though unnamed lake, its shore
dotted with pencil pines. We’ve discussed the possibility of looking for a
campsite further on. But picking up on my mood, Tim is happy to make this small
lake our base. He and his family know it well enough to have given it their own
name, Lake Nycteris, after a character in one of their favourite George
MacDonald fairy tales. They haven’t camped here though, so we spend the next
half hour circumnavigating the lake in search of the ideal campsite. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><br /></span></div><div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiVcEzTX50ajxFHSL5cboocPVTieoGggrUGGtqYbCDKOjKMgNEZkl2d4Ancuxz4vLF-0CvuaJ7s5ZRi353qIWrm1_9AQrJzizyrBDSvas5hqTEtzmuK5JsK3DNk8gypfB4haTQ7Th7Fv4eONrotAc3Hr3YPzbNohFdqA-483cttwYqrqjLC0LDghOGL=s6240" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="6240" data-original-width="4160" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiVcEzTX50ajxFHSL5cboocPVTieoGggrUGGtqYbCDKOjKMgNEZkl2d4Ancuxz4vLF-0CvuaJ7s5ZRi353qIWrm1_9AQrJzizyrBDSvas5hqTEtzmuK5JsK3DNk8gypfB4haTQ7Th7Fv4eONrotAc3Hr3YPzbNohFdqA-483cttwYqrqjLC0LDghOGL=w426-h640" width="426" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /><span style="color: #38761d;"><i>A burned pencil pine beside the lake</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">The 2016
bushfire has come very close, burning part of a nearby myrtle beech forest, and
taking out a couple of pencil pines in the sphagnum bog by the shore. In the end
we find a site just large enough for my one-person tent and Tim’s tent/tarp set
up. It’s by the lake shore, next to the outlet stream, and beside a small copse
of pencil pines. It’s perfect, or nearly so. As soft as it makes us sound, it’s
only when we’re sitting in our Helinox Chair Zero chairs with a hot brew in hand
that we really feel settled. We’re in total agreement that these little camp
chairs are worth their 500g in weight! </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><br /></span></div><div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiI2wwgBnOk5zDkGwcjCo97hRi_KLt2xVVMEWVWf4bPIPOupzHXXc4v8hxs3U8LAQZtTo5qxu1oMPl7KMT0aiNLXJU9vEEGg0VacsU4nHozRdpAhL2KzLbM-56XPoo1Yi2RUS2bAXc0RYi-BAOettakHQYtEKTMGbF4Ait1LVI-qHh6ObnrDWwR7Tdp=s6240" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4160" data-original-width="6240" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiI2wwgBnOk5zDkGwcjCo97hRi_KLt2xVVMEWVWf4bPIPOupzHXXc4v8hxs3U8LAQZtTo5qxu1oMPl7KMT0aiNLXJU9vEEGg0VacsU4nHozRdpAhL2KzLbM-56XPoo1Yi2RUS2bAXc0RYi-BAOettakHQYtEKTMGbF4Ait1LVI-qHh6ObnrDWwR7Tdp=w400-h266" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /><span style="color: #38761d;"><i>Our set-up beside the lake</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">Settled perhaps, but not yet fully
detached, we keep chatting about the work matters that have added weight to our
packs. And we talk real estate, comparing local development issues that threaten
to change the feel of our respective local areas. But eventually these matters
slide into the background. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><br /></span></div><div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhgPPTsyFVeIS9Ikxam2nCyZKa5_Y9EE_phkOu7fxx_8isxExKaztuELpeRW6YzDcl4PWNj7Xcas2EePtmQCh5PLZ1pvBsrZtm4s_3tp14DQe4YLJCwwxvgvVsAxZSM6DEH6BnNEj8oND3qD1Wu7ClghRoAtbAnZStMfybke1VGnsEV3v2RGaqkiUM_=s6240" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4160" data-original-width="6240" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhgPPTsyFVeIS9Ikxam2nCyZKa5_Y9EE_phkOu7fxx_8isxExKaztuELpeRW6YzDcl4PWNj7Xcas2EePtmQCh5PLZ1pvBsrZtm4s_3tp14DQe4YLJCwwxvgvVsAxZSM6DEH6BnNEj8oND3qD1Wu7ClghRoAtbAnZStMfybke1VGnsEV3v2RGaqkiUM_=w400-h266" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /><span style="color: #38761d;"><i>The wider scene, with Clumner Bluff behind</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">Here, by this quiet lake, tucked under its forested
hill, with views stretching down valley and across to a distant Clumner Bluff,
with a hundred frogs calling from the water, a few shy wallabies eyeing us
quietly, and a sky only scantily clouded, we find the other side of the
equation. Now we’re beginning to attach ourselves to what truly matters. This is
<i><b>real</b></i> real estate.
</span></div></div>Nature Scribehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12727570990616097487noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5268236451961589916.post-5084207343512060362021-08-03T14:36:00.000+10:002021-08-03T14:36:40.367+10:00Little Lives: Part 2 - The Nattai Wilderness<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Shorty” the campervan was next due to take us to Sydney. Lynne had spent a lot of time and effort getting ready for a reunion there. It had already been postponed twice due to the virus, so we were hoping this would be third time lucky. But, with just a few days up our sleeve, </span><span style="font-family: Calibri;">the Coronavirus outbreak in the city</span><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> was growing. And so we cautiously waited before committing to enter greater metropolitan Sydney.</span><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;">For a couple of days we holed up in a Lithgow caravan park, and listened to news of the growing COVID outbreak in Sydney. Perched there on the heights of Lithgow, we felt like Frodo and Sam on the <i>Emyn Muil</i>, waiting to enter Mordor. Our daughter Sally caught onto this and messaged us using Boromir’s words: “<i>One does not simply walk into Mordor!</i>”<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitpxWuIVqEvQf15ILE0ZJF6MpuQUf1zMOzaVLxrkJ7AD2Uw4DKZK2OBcR0IJCN8tBrqAQ4yTB5bMM3LbzCqy2cSAOovLs8o0rpSmeBn74s7InBAHSvBZDcPEDu1ioCekmiXiwEvvOTATI/s2048/EmptyName+6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1365" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitpxWuIVqEvQf15ILE0ZJF6MpuQUf1zMOzaVLxrkJ7AD2Uw4DKZK2OBcR0IJCN8tBrqAQ4yTB5bMM3LbzCqy2cSAOovLs8o0rpSmeBn74s7InBAHSvBZDcPEDu1ioCekmiXiwEvvOTATI/w426-h640/EmptyName+6.jpg" width="426" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /><span style="color: #38761d;"><i>[Shorty </i><span style="caret-color: rgb(56, 118, 29);"><i>hides out near Lithgow]</i></span></span></td></tr></tbody></table></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;">We didn’t, and neither did we drive there. Instead we turned tail and sadly retreated from “Mordor” to the rather more friendly town of Mudgee. While there, apart from a bit of wine tasting and bike riding, we learned that the NSW premier had put Greater Sydney into lockdown. Had we gone there, we’d have been there still (as of early August, and counting!)<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;">* * *<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Chastened, we re-jigged our plans – again. We’d organised to catchup with my brother after Sydney, when he’d be back from his own virus-dodging trip. So we firmed up that plan, and a few days later arrived at his place in the NSW Southern Highlands. He lives outside, though not a great distance from, greater metropolitan Sydney. It’s strange to run such a filter over every destination, but we had become very used to it. My brother, a retired doctor, is well practiced at it staying Covid-safe too. So once at his place, we hatched a plot to go literally far from the madding crowd: a day walk into the Nattai Wilderness.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9N88XOrexXn0qlNXM4Xhe69Vl9iBxD6cgh4deo-sedBYjgvoShjJYBMmO1vQ34rVNj0llUSFDlJbq_tSrpj9Dr2l_s7fo6HVMy0PXpnXWDX4TA4nXv7_r8H2mkez4uRk_V7BahnDmA90/s2048/EmptyName.jpg" style="display: block; font-family: -webkit-standard; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; padding: 1em 0px;"><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1365" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9N88XOrexXn0qlNXM4Xhe69Vl9iBxD6cgh4deo-sedBYjgvoShjJYBMmO1vQ34rVNj0llUSFDlJbq_tSrpj9Dr2l_s7fo6HVMy0PXpnXWDX4TA4nXv7_r8H2mkez4uRk_V7BahnDmA90/w426-h640/EmptyName.jpg" width="426" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #38761d;"><i>[Ian and Lynne start our Nattai walk]</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Tasmania has a way of turning we Tasmanians into wilderness snobs. Partly it’s the fact that we live on a substantially wild, mountainous island thrust into the southern seas, away from the fray of mainland Australia, and beyond the easy reach of over-development (though that threat is growing). And partly it’s that around 20% of our island, nearly 1.6 million hectares, is designated as World Heritage Wilderness. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;">It’s a vast wilderness I will never encompass, no matter how long I live. But I have taken great pleasure in showing many people, including my brother Ian, just some of the wonders of Tasmania’s wilderness. Now it was his turn to show us one of the hidden gems of his area, specifically the Nattai Wilderness. </span></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgclZLNMJ3U4dMsF4DMFBFaUOYtanRPk-QFWc06Hz5SXdLXdB2UbhGLLSn0USsBTEABLeQa1bVc1Cv8HMLRyPBvPozj2YHEedrVpcGDjxHwVrZ03emj07ctggU5SDKID-ZiZgWdwdiusAo/s2048/EmptyName+1.jpg" style="display: block; font-family: -webkit-standard; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; padding: 1em 0px;"><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="1365" data-original-width="2048" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgclZLNMJ3U4dMsF4DMFBFaUOYtanRPk-QFWc06Hz5SXdLXdB2UbhGLLSn0USsBTEABLeQa1bVc1Cv8HMLRyPBvPozj2YHEedrVpcGDjxHwVrZ03emj07ctggU5SDKID-ZiZgWdwdiusAo/w400-h266/EmptyName+1.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #38761d;"><i>[... let the wilderness begin]</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;">When I've flown into Sydney I have sometimes looked down on a deeply incised wild area and wondered: is that the Nattai Wilderness? Back in the 1970s, when I lived and studied in NSW, I’d camped and bushwalked on the fringe of the area. But I had never knowingly been into what in 1991 became the Nattai National Park. Parts of the park, including where we would walk, were later officially designated as wilderness. Of course for millennia, the Dharawal and Gundangarra Aboriginal peoples called this home rather than wilderness. Our day walk would take us past sandstone overhangs that would have been used as shelter for thousands of years. The country still feels old and remote, despite being relatively close to a large city.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;">For Lynne and I the sandstone felt very familiar, since we were both brought up on sandstone country. Ian led us first along a fire trail, and then onto a narrower walking track. He was lamenting that we were seeing this country so soon after a massive wild fire. And he was apologetic that the wildflowers weren’t really out yet. Yet somehow we found more than enough to slow us down, <i>oohing</i> over a late-blooming flannel flower here; <i>ahhing</i> over a banksia there. </span></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7Hayr2uC4l2kP7UDYpe6pMrqx9_cDIYgVM9LbFPFD4p2tkvAl8ilS_KCwLyiGkKCiOQgPi1u8b5NTS0onfDuCOKXg-bzQ5KSlsIFJ7PpAVSXTcQOJUKRgwOR-6ABAIsFE111eJFKGMl4/s1936/Collage.JPG" style="display: block; font-family: -webkit-standard; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; padding: 1em 0px;"><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="1936" data-original-width="1936" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7Hayr2uC4l2kP7UDYpe6pMrqx9_cDIYgVM9LbFPFD4p2tkvAl8ilS_KCwLyiGkKCiOQgPi1u8b5NTS0onfDuCOKXg-bzQ5KSlsIFJ7PpAVSXTcQOJUKRgwOR-6ABAIsFE111eJFKGMl4/w400-h400/Collage.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #38761d;"><i>[A selection of winter wildflowers in the Nattai]</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The country felt similar to the Blue Mountains, and I knew that our track would inevitably lead us to a lookout, although lookdown would be more fitting name. Because, just as in the Blue Mountains, this is more gorge country than mountain country. We reached the edge of the plateau, and could feel the air expand around us before we saw the first bit of gorge beneath us. Ian suggested we push on to the lookout proper, maybe 5 minutes further on. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhv4WQyKZsXcri9qcYCsuckz6cHGXdU2oQIDv38tQWkLQiQECt58y5J7Ud5KaR-kZhENa4vguGmws-yAJMt4G56J6vn4r9-JawmTNHuBvVh8VJamreN618ew85X8AFKuq4jFqlHejc_qSQ/s2048/EmptyName+2.jpg" style="display: block; font-family: -webkit-standard; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; padding: 1em 0px;"><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="1365" data-original-width="2048" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhv4WQyKZsXcri9qcYCsuckz6cHGXdU2oQIDv38tQWkLQiQECt58y5J7Ud5KaR-kZhENa4vguGmws-yAJMt4G56J6vn4r9-JawmTNHuBvVh8VJamreN618ew85X8AFKuq4jFqlHejc_qSQ/w400-h266/EmptyName+2.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #38761d;"><i>[Worth the wait: Ahearn Lookout]</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;">It was worth it. Ahearn Lookout is a grandstand to some vast, wild country. The Lion King wouldn’t have looked out of place posing here, if you accepted replacing savannah plains with vast and steep forested slopes. At the bottom of this defile was the Nattai River, here and there flashing reflections towards us. And beyond that we could make out further gorges, including that of the distant Wollondilly River.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhisnOfRogZh-A-W3PoV-1eize-n1nupKB4MB0gG-pK7X2ORTYElYAkgRlEA2IotQgELJVWPYpekUk94aqKob_NmgT7DlTSEUgfgURqcGCO4dKTvZ7I-qdiZ_LOJ0gLRhnvAfV1QjNsDek/s2048/EmptyName+5.jpg" style="display: block; font-family: -webkit-standard; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; padding: 1em 0px;"><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="1365" data-original-width="2048" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhisnOfRogZh-A-W3PoV-1eize-n1nupKB4MB0gG-pK7X2ORTYElYAkgRlEA2IotQgELJVWPYpekUk94aqKob_NmgT7DlTSEUgfgURqcGCO4dKTvZ7I-qdiZ_LOJ0gLRhnvAfV1QjNsDek/w400-h266/EmptyName+5.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #38761d;"><i>[Looking south down the Nattai Gorge]</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">We perched on the edge of this vastness, 1 million hectares of wild country stretching all the way to Kanangra Walls, the Blue Mountains, the Wollemi, the Colo, and </span><span style="font-family: Calibri;">beyond</span><span style="font-family: Calibri;">. In such a place our quiet consumption of a humble sandwich and a coffee somehow felt like a feast. I was never great with equations, but here I could work out that</span><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span><i style="font-family: Calibri;">place + movement, over time</i><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> equalled deep satisfaction. And especially when that place was a wilderness. That's when a day can feel like another little life.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><i>[Special thanks to my brother Ian for introducing us to the Nattai Wilderness.]</i></span></span></p></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWRzTx3CxFwCa_PuCJ7io0thq5xxICAm20aFYvJ5efrQ222Chw2-xHx2IQ0zMYpksq8Mh-VgyxA3Cve-GnNm0UsIKX3NGe0T1FNK1CPAoQ2GxnhCn5zIOgs-UUJ87mGSVdK1l0S-T8aCY/s2048/EmptyName+4.jpg" style="display: block; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; padding: 1em 0px;"><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="1365" data-original-width="2048" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWRzTx3CxFwCa_PuCJ7io0thq5xxICAm20aFYvJ5efrQ222Chw2-xHx2IQ0zMYpksq8Mh-VgyxA3Cve-GnNm0UsIKX3NGe0T1FNK1CPAoQ2GxnhCn5zIOgs-UUJ87mGSVdK1l0S-T8aCY/w400-h266/EmptyName+4.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #38761d;"><i>[The perfect spot to feast on wilderness]</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table></div>Nature Scribehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12727570990616097487noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5268236451961589916.post-29097590861765142212021-07-26T11:08:00.000+10:002021-07-26T11:08:47.778+10:00Little Lives: Part 1 - Tumbarumba<div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">My argument went like this. “Shorty”, our VW campervan, our tinyhouse on wheels and additional access to adventure in these covid-constrained times, would allow us to effectively move house whenever we fancied. Want a house by the sea? We just drive to the coast and make it our short-term home. Or a cabin in the mountains? Simply drive into the hills and stay awhile. There we could experience “little lives”, snippets of “what-if” life, in places we’d always wanted to be.</span></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNnMbjlnNLGJsuHzPf7X2sknwiZZfH9VHQyZ3us9aYN7FCTkX8WZorvnE3U2LgiarR5IWuJTL-NVhOdNu05-rEvEu03xiQ_8epEslQ4_0HJLhQyXjIikWwIdidXQ5270b31O1vdzVKjKo/s2048/EmptyName+10.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1365" data-original-width="2048" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNnMbjlnNLGJsuHzPf7X2sknwiZZfH9VHQyZ3us9aYN7FCTkX8WZorvnE3U2LgiarR5IWuJTL-NVhOdNu05-rEvEu03xiQ_8epEslQ4_0HJLhQyXjIikWwIdidXQ5270b31O1vdzVKjKo/w400-h266/EmptyName+10.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /><span style="color: #38761d;"><i>["Shorty" has a practice run]</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /></p><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">I thought it sounded good, but Lynne wasn’t so convinced. She’d always thought we’d move by the beach after retirement, and my “little lives” idea sounded like a fob off. (I guess we’ll be having that “move to the coast” discussion for a while yet.) In the meantime we agreed that some adventures in “Shorty” were overdue. We had acquired a short wheelbase VW Transporter van, and had it converted into a campervan by the good folk at Achtung Camper in Geelong, Victoria. Being the SWB version, we nick-named it “Shorty”, and so far the name has stuck.</span></div><p></p><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1-g94PF0RqpkIIN8cBb4dTSrHLFup1nFATa2W3fPD60MCDV5SGumSMVqOvx8K2Dn1Nvz-0wkIxAjz9OA_E5Z81YXrCbtGeVtOBxLSPokyxosEj8fhQPrCjQ7cRalrBKhwjH1jeMEGeQU/s2048/EmptyName+9.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1365" data-original-width="2048" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1-g94PF0RqpkIIN8cBb4dTSrHLFup1nFATa2W3fPD60MCDV5SGumSMVqOvx8K2Dn1Nvz-0wkIxAjz9OA_E5Z81YXrCbtGeVtOBxLSPokyxosEj8fhQPrCjQ7cRalrBKhwjH1jeMEGeQU/w400-h266/EmptyName+9.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /><span style="color: #38761d;"><i>[Sheep near Tumba living contented little lives]</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">After a series of shakedown trips within Tasmania, we felt ready to venture to the “big island”, mainland Australia, via the Spirit of Tasmania ferry. A reunion in Sydney with people we shared our youth with some 45 years ago was the impetus. Around that event we planned some cycling, some walking, some beach bumming, and some family visits. But Sydney, in late June: let that sink in! </span></span></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Right from the start we sensed this would be a different trip in terms of forward planning. Melbourne was in partial COVID lockdown when we arrived, but we were permitted to transit Victoria, stopping only for food, fuel and toilet breaks. So our plan for a leisurely trip to some Goulburn Valley wineries, and a few days sipping, riding and living the “little life” dream of being winemakers, went west. Actually it went north, as we made a bee-line for the NSW border. We didn’t stop until we got to Tumbarumba. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNrvQ7vzyCa84uwIsv26RkJFv0Mkr2iJYqv6jrMhRWGrJgB-1XFXPp0QVr0DX4YMVy05zekt9I87Hfo0NpGXkCjgaGZYXYotK2W7EKoSdR2zwQveZdJ0o0JOcksELzNE1eRB7rIP8QNdQ/s2048/EmptyName+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1365" data-original-width="2048" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNrvQ7vzyCa84uwIsv26RkJFv0Mkr2iJYqv6jrMhRWGrJgB-1XFXPp0QVr0DX4YMVy05zekt9I87Hfo0NpGXkCjgaGZYXYotK2W7EKoSdR2zwQveZdJ0o0JOcksELzNE1eRB7rIP8QNdQ/w400-h266/EmptyName+1.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /><span style="color: #38761d;"><i>[Yep - Tumbarumba]</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> </span></p><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Of all the border towns on offer, why Tumbarumba? Well, to be fair the Riverina Highlands are lovely, and they do have vineyards. But the main attraction for us was a new 21km rail trail from Tumbarumba to Rosewood (or “from nowhere to nowhere” as someone unkindly put it). Tumbarumba’s beauty is on the subtle side. It nestles in some pretty hills, though calling them “highlands” would be a stretch. Its fame is somewhat meagre too, although a 1959 vernacular poem by John O’Grady has made it memorable for some. Its famous line is about a bloke who is “<i>up at Tumba-bloody-rumba shootin' kanga-bloody-roos</i>.”</span></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWBaver3VFY16aZy4V5hgyE7ZC5BD_k6W1AADPy_udF6rs7GWydfhFM2cM5LX6DWEiiSOnT_nMeFHTSSmcLUyqgqNn1m5CQmEotRTLgl8m7CRqFn6_px0emHOWRzYz53ioByr9LgOGYP4/s2048/EmptyName+7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1365" data-original-width="2048" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWBaver3VFY16aZy4V5hgyE7ZC5BD_k6W1AADPy_udF6rs7GWydfhFM2cM5LX6DWEiiSOnT_nMeFHTSSmcLUyqgqNn1m5CQmEotRTLgl8m7CRqFn6_px0emHOWRzYz53ioByr9LgOGYP4/w400-h266/EmptyName+7.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /><span style="color: #38761d;"><i>[Pretty wooded hills near Tumbarumba]</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgb1jVAhyoZ10hfMOhZ9l29kIuStQxxD1jqmlTnLX0BL8cRuFEAdBsdlJWHolHAQf5NBdsUHBxpGq9dfSLhqQpwENzPzEqcqg6msgaczbYGcBWLXeUwvk5uSaEDpXYhTpc7oAUgjcJk7QQ/s2048/EmptyName+4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1365" data-original-width="2048" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgb1jVAhyoZ10hfMOhZ9l29kIuStQxxD1jqmlTnLX0BL8cRuFEAdBsdlJWHolHAQf5NBdsUHBxpGq9dfSLhqQpwENzPzEqcqg6msgaczbYGcBWLXeUwvk5uSaEDpXYhTpc7oAUgjcJk7QQ/w400-h266/EmptyName+4.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /><span style="color: #38761d;"><i>[Low hills with vine-covered slopes]</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> </span></span></p><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">The local roos would certainly have needed their winter coats, as overnight the temperature plunged to minus 4. I was glad Lynne had made sure our doona had been given a feather reinforcement a few weeks before the trip. The only other incumbents in the wee caravan park found their water had frozen overnight. </span></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhScdjRQ_ZHlsGsJxBnQAzysHZ0Rgg64DOGEKF4YZoF3DvMA6vEn4uHZmPyOGRx7lvyQWNaUE6rsK_ZbGZ5CTH620AZHvBJNQ1OqJOol2TXrCBU176GlvmEKVG9z0qv2ajnEniM-rrgPc/s2048/EmptyName+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1365" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhScdjRQ_ZHlsGsJxBnQAzysHZ0Rgg64DOGEKF4YZoF3DvMA6vEn4uHZmPyOGRx7lvyQWNaUE6rsK_ZbGZ5CTH620AZHvBJNQ1OqJOol2TXrCBU176GlvmEKVG9z0qv2ajnEniM-rrgPc/w426-h640/EmptyName+2.jpg" width="426" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /><span style="color: #38761d;"><i>[Ready for the ride: Tumbarumba to Rosewood]</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> </span></p><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">The temperature didn’t encourage an early start, but the sun soon enticed us up the hill to the start of the cycle trail. We’ve been on plenty of cycle trails in Australia and New Zealand, but this would be the first time we’ve ridden one that is sealed the whole way, in this case in bitumen. There are reassuring hints that this was once a rail line, with old-style station names, the remains of old platforms, plenty of cuttings, and various bits of rail paraphernalia. Crucially, as with most rail trails, the incline is quite merciful. Trains are generally not able to climb a slope of more than 2 degrees. So while the vibe is retro, the surface and the infrastructure (think bridges, fences, crossings, toilets, sign posts, interpretive panels) are all shiny new. </span></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZYiRVWWFqcQ5oWrcaqPLtyQWJAIqRelGjYOEahDPPxrEXzZSowH5RlfXAr5EeUQQ-dSkvN__tAQPQxrnQw6RDRUE9tKPu7DhcHA6V3ksOQGHTPx4-bCPFlCuHAq3sjNTxQTlVsK2fkVE/s2048/EmptyName+3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1365" data-original-width="2048" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZYiRVWWFqcQ5oWrcaqPLtyQWJAIqRelGjYOEahDPPxrEXzZSowH5RlfXAr5EeUQQ-dSkvN__tAQPQxrnQw6RDRUE9tKPu7DhcHA6V3ksOQGHTPx4-bCPFlCuHAq3sjNTxQTlVsK2fkVE/w400-h266/EmptyName+3.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /><span style="color: #38761d;"><i>[The rail trail is paved and smooth all the way]</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> </span></p><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Lynne was still recovering from a cold, and we were both short on riding practice. More than that, we’d had a rushed and stressful trip across Victoria, after a sleepless night on the ferry. Sometimes you go for a walk or a ride not so much because you really want to, but more because you know you need the brain re-set that being out in the fresh air gives you. And so we rolled down the smooth track through hilly open woodland, before breaking out into wide, gently rolling hills dotted with eucalypts, sheep and cattle. It was quietly, gently exhilarating, the perfect way to ease us back into the present. Our coffee stop at a little wayside seat added some needed caffeine into the mix, and also some humour. While we had a thermos of hot coffee in our packs, we’d forgotten cups. All we had was a urine specimen container that we use to carry milk or condiments. So we took turns to sip micro-brews from our little yellow container, in between giggles.</span></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjy1iuQY5ALqajxSFyxD7mabHjuM8o_5YoOB9nXiyURhk83q3Hwd9UENLTtrzMDmh_L77GKIWTaJ1B1HaGvyt6th0IIq8uNTVgOp0HGvXbqT_NASmZIbamZt7XAK5FpxHO0x1HGHv6tOw4/s2048/EmptyName+5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1365" data-original-width="2048" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjy1iuQY5ALqajxSFyxD7mabHjuM8o_5YoOB9nXiyURhk83q3Hwd9UENLTtrzMDmh_L77GKIWTaJ1B1HaGvyt6th0IIq8uNTVgOp0HGvXbqT_NASmZIbamZt7XAK5FpxHO0x1HGHv6tOw4/w400-h266/EmptyName+5.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /><span style="color: #38761d;"><i>[Lynne pours a "specimen" cup of coffee!]</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> </span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizLPKwlZpgX9i8D2DbSDRPmmsSsPkeqsT49TrG1B8I7sbWQDvdgGVHL23vQIKDtg50Zog7J5yYx7C2FFqMSJSl-k72BFyXgZlkSKd4gHxN9mq-CdxIOooA3vmMTtOkzUZL0FVYJ_MxUSA/s2048/EmptyName+8.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1365" data-original-width="2048" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizLPKwlZpgX9i8D2DbSDRPmmsSsPkeqsT49TrG1B8I7sbWQDvdgGVHL23vQIKDtg50Zog7J5yYx7C2FFqMSJSl-k72BFyXgZlkSKd4gHxN9mq-CdxIOooA3vmMTtOkzUZL0FVYJ_MxUSA/w400-h266/EmptyName+8.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /><span style="color: #38761d;"><i>[We found a ewe and lamb warming themselves on the track]<br /><br /></i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Our minds soon turned to the future. If we went all the way to Rosewood, we would then have to ride all the way back. The total trip would be close to 45km, rather more than we had planned. But I was quietly confident we could do it, especially given we were riding our e-bikes. We’d learned that Rosewood had a café, encouragingly called “Gone Barmy”. With the offer of another coffee there, this time from an actual cup, I convinced Lynne we could do the full return trip.</span></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyIEyIjWuVuxMA64Fm7wYw8igCdeGWAnVt6FBAIuG9M5fDeU8GbFIE8kS-snucdOWk9wdhlfrFKBREM2n2pzsBB3X-3piKEQ5VcZUvkH5eDtZCW2Q7MMFV1kuCJ-2ivSCozUysAfw5Pp0/s2048/EmptyName+6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1365" data-original-width="2048" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyIEyIjWuVuxMA64Fm7wYw8igCdeGWAnVt6FBAIuG9M5fDeU8GbFIE8kS-snucdOWk9wdhlfrFKBREM2n2pzsBB3X-3piKEQ5VcZUvkH5eDtZCW2Q7MMFV1kuCJ-2ivSCozUysAfw5Pp0/w400-h266/EmptyName+6.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /><span style="color: #38761d;"><i>[We got there - and rested at Rosewood Station.]</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> </span></p><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">And so we did, the return ride being just as delightful as the outward journey. Even the feared uphill to the Tumbarumba station proved a toothless tiger, and we were soon back with “Shorty” ready for a shower and rest before heading to the pub for a well-earned dinner. Our little life in Tumbarumba had been short but surprisingly sweet.</span></div></div>Nature Scribehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12727570990616097487noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5268236451961589916.post-54357529522915803762021-05-21T16:30:00.001+10:002021-05-25T15:12:00.537+10:00Central Plateau Variations: Part 5<p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">It was the light that woke me. Not just the slow leak of dawn light, but something far stronger. I emerged from the tent to a veil of high cirrus cloud that radiated a rich, warm pink. Blissful weather one day, stunning sunrise the next? Not business as usual for the Central Plateau then! </span></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHPPqOrJ4E0RIJUF1-PlHv2njjmZsumzfaYls50tg4qCD7Cb-IxNgOark9tvzEprqaVGBBblS8wrNoaRMO7ZdO1YFtznt7ECivg8RML0cJKRFLNZDFyGAb6ZxNhO5VAelXIJDFJ-HrB1o/s2048/BP+to+WoJ72.jpg" style="font-family: Calibri; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1365" data-original-width="2048" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHPPqOrJ4E0RIJUF1-PlHv2njjmZsumzfaYls50tg4qCD7Cb-IxNgOark9tvzEprqaVGBBblS8wrNoaRMO7ZdO1YFtznt7ECivg8RML0cJKRFLNZDFyGAb6ZxNhO5VAelXIJDFJ-HrB1o/w400-h266/BP+to+WoJ72.jpg" width="400" /></a></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: center;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #38761d;"><i>[Sunrise at Lake Tyre]</i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">By the time I’d fetched my camera, golds and reds were joining the display, lighting up the lower clouds. The whole was then reflected back at us off the lake. As the others emerged, we wandered in wonder around the shores of Lake Tyre taking photos, or just soaking up the beauty. </span><span style="font-family: Calibri;">If we thought we were in for another beautiful day, we’d forgotten the highlands’ capacity for tricks. I’d left my tent up while we ate breakfast, hoping the rising sun would dry it a little. But as we sipped our tea, a thick mist rolled in, hiding the sun and dampening hopes of carrying out dry tents. </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZJrDDm4Arwt11D7_3LwMqwf-7CS5HweV-ZNuN_9zJCmgcfabXIhTuD9xpg0CFNzsGGKZCLfD4LwFBDX_SKrW8kZTB20T1hIQvFy1P-jUABxgsMxSVI1cAbmFTkbBz9o8EOh9vj60dww8/s1332/Mist+-+JW.JPG" style="font-family: Calibri; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="888" data-original-width="1332" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZJrDDm4Arwt11D7_3LwMqwf-7CS5HweV-ZNuN_9zJCmgcfabXIhTuD9xpg0CFNzsGGKZCLfD4LwFBDX_SKrW8kZTB20T1hIQvFy1P-jUABxgsMxSVI1cAbmFTkbBz9o8EOh9vj60dww8/w400-h266/Mist+-+JW.JPG" width="400" /></a></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: center;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #38761d;"><i>[The mist rolls in: Photo by Jim Wilson]</i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: center;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhunTHLCFkvPIB03knZmKj2r26DayiQJ6x14TUWOM50VTdcctdeER5jPj-qU1CS5GU5xIA1XtP_r2oj0sjADRwYw2XYUT9MUq83i_sGC4yXSzRpgjr-yc_70GsgT2Dp0vJozFaoKyKdkwc/s1332/Larry+in+Mist+-+JW.JPG" style="font-family: Calibri; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="888" data-original-width="1332" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhunTHLCFkvPIB03knZmKj2r26DayiQJ6x14TUWOM50VTdcctdeER5jPj-qU1CS5GU5xIA1XtP_r2oj0sjADRwYw2XYUT9MUq83i_sGC4yXSzRpgjr-yc_70GsgT2Dp0vJozFaoKyKdkwc/w400-h266/Larry+in+Mist+-+JW.JPG" width="400" /></a></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: center;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #38761d;"><i>[Larry packs up in the mist: Photo by Jim Wilson]</i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Reluctantly, with raincoats at the ready, we packed up soggy gear in the clammy chill. As we left the camp site the mist was thinning, the day’s air beginning to mix. But above us Mount Jerusalem, which had been roiled in thick cloud, now sent that cloud rolling down towards us, like a stern angel driving us out of the garden.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivB_yGCK0QwI9ARvH2OPcUMQahhyphenhyphenjz8Cqeb9uPHljZQ2Nt4bjrcnTbrHCAiqkjeCEUnaTgRtOalXCyOyXMJhC4-oqbCnNlp1eQJ5aCxZ2qccSjI21EwjHkZn1ZYdGdOyFbbJyzYOjnuwc/s1355/Jim+%252B+PG+with+Clouds+-+Larry.jpg" style="font-family: Calibri; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="888" data-original-width="1355" height="263" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivB_yGCK0QwI9ARvH2OPcUMQahhyphenhyphenjz8Cqeb9uPHljZQ2Nt4bjrcnTbrHCAiqkjeCEUnaTgRtOalXCyOyXMJhC4-oqbCnNlp1eQJ5aCxZ2qccSjI21EwjHkZn1ZYdGdOyFbbJyzYOjnuwc/w400-h263/Jim+%252B+PG+with+Clouds+-+Larry.jpg" width="400" /></a></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: center;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #38761d;"><i>[Cloud follows us down Zion Vale: Photo by Larry Hamilton]</i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Our Plan A for the trip was well out of kilter by now. Instead of spending a night at Tiger Lake as originally planned, we would now bypass it and walk out to the Walls of Jerusalem carpark in one go. Tim and Merran had done this on our last walk together here, when they had to leave a day early to get back for appointments. They assured us it wasn’t difficult, though given their walking prowess, one or two of us may have taken that with a grain of salt.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaYy3KStDXaWjF-L6sbr75GdsNlBn-xyRFA0YeucSYoZ4z3DqalGTL9h6AhvU9hMAcDVAiTFGQnhYFbnfpcYmx_p8IZ817d6oPuEeedqfVUZNxQQbbIteSHt_ZNS7-7csO5VrB9ZH9Ve0/s2048/BP+to+WoJ76.jpg" style="font-family: Calibri; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1365" data-original-width="2048" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaYy3KStDXaWjF-L6sbr75GdsNlBn-xyRFA0YeucSYoZ4z3DqalGTL9h6AhvU9hMAcDVAiTFGQnhYFbnfpcYmx_p8IZ817d6oPuEeedqfVUZNxQQbbIteSHt_ZNS7-7csO5VrB9ZH9Ve0/w400-h266/BP+to+WoJ76.jpg" width="400" /></a><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: large; text-align: left;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: center;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #38761d; font-family: trebuchet;"><i>[Tim leads us towards Officers Marsh]</i></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: center;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Still, if there’s one thing that motivates bushwalkers in the transition to the finish of a trip, it’s the craving for cold drinks and hot food at walk’s end. There are unspoken rules: it has to be something you can’t get in the bush, and it has to be prepared by someone else. Grease and beer are perennial favourite ingredients, but as we walked we considered a plethora of other post-walk possibilities.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;">We’d left early again. There was ground and time to make up if we were going to get to lunch in time. Fortunately, whether it was because we were walking downhill, or walking towards that promised lunch, or just because we were headed for home, Jim was the most sprightly he’d been all walk. He said he still felt crook, but he was determined to get the job done.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I noticed other transitions too. Descending towards Zion Vale, we first had to cross Officers Marsh, a buttongrass-fringed boggy area. We picked our way across it, keeping to less boggy higher parts where possible. The land felt fat with water, holding onto the plentiful rainfall not only in its many pools, but also in its deep and spongy peat soils. Wallaby scats and pads, and a wombat burrow in some higher ground confirmed it was also good grazing land. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwYMO3gMgACwMql7Ox3cTmGD6xP7lkP2hyFOew5zSCZrOd8weBuJ1mzPr4o4tv04eHBsQwmozzgsSA66_fw1V3QBM_UlSv8W-qujEQIHk2ju66CD_mgNsp4VctUYHEcO7j7bw1FR6HZv8/s2048/BP+to+WoJ76+1.jpg" style="font-family: Calibri; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1365" data-original-width="2048" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwYMO3gMgACwMql7Ox3cTmGD6xP7lkP2hyFOew5zSCZrOd8weBuJ1mzPr4o4tv04eHBsQwmozzgsSA66_fw1V3QBM_UlSv8W-qujEQIHk2ju66CD_mgNsp4VctUYHEcO7j7bw1FR6HZv8/w400-h266/BP+to+WoJ76+1.jpg" width="400" /></a><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: large; text-align: left;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: large; text-align: left;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #38761d; font-family: trebuchet;"><i>[Wombat burrow, Officers Marsh]</i></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;">As we descended, the land grew leaner, the steeper gradient aiding faster water flow and impeding peat development. Now in places the water cut down to bedrock. The flowing water was finding its voice, chattering and chuckling among the stream-bed rocks, while calling currawongs and chittering honeyeaters sang their harmonies.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;">It wasn’t all downhill, of course. The highlands reserve the right to put an uphill in your way, just to keep you honest. So at the end of Golden Vale, after the junction of the Fish River and Wild Dog Creek, there was a short but steady climb towards George Howes Lake. Knowing this was coming, and feeling the warmth of the day finally asserting itself, we sat on a grassy bank for a break. It was a place a few of us had stopped before. In fact, Libby reminded us, it was almost exactly 8 years ago that she’d first met us in the Walls, joining us for a day walk past here to Tiger Lake. These days we don’t feel our walking group is complete if “Possum” (Libby’s <i>nom de randonee</i>) isn’t with us.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;">On the uphill section the sun and our physical effort squeezed the day’s first perspiration from us. After the turnoff to Tiger Lake our route once again trended downhill. And now the valley was tightening even more, squeezed between the uplands of the Walls to the south, and the outliers of Clumner Bluff to the north. To avoid a steep, bluffy descent, we left the river side and took a diagonal route through scrubby bush and forest towards the main Walls track. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjb1-vsJhuaLckb_DDytaZcQFTJ9qethK8PDH9riDYOkApQNRrz5Nxs2eo8TcXrja7pfq5oh5lIGR_BDK5U2Ld9529z2R4e_wR6wjEGQYxXJl7l2Su2J4vW8q9ZJSXLPfZK5ppVUVQWMQE/s2048/BP+to+WoJ78.jpg" style="font-family: Calibri; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1365" data-original-width="2048" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjb1-vsJhuaLckb_DDytaZcQFTJ9qethK8PDH9riDYOkApQNRrz5Nxs2eo8TcXrja7pfq5oh5lIGR_BDK5U2Ld9529z2R4e_wR6wjEGQYxXJl7l2Su2J4vW8q9ZJSXLPfZK5ppVUVQWMQE/w400-h266/BP+to+WoJ78.jpg" width="400" /></a></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: center;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #38761d;"><i>[About to leave the valley]</i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Eventually we met that track at Trappers Hut. And here we met the first other walkers we’d seen all trip, another surprising transition. For them the hut marked the end of their major ascent for the morning. For us it was the start of the highway home: a fully-formed track, easy to follow if mildly steep. It was tempting to just put our heads down and will the carpark to come. But for a change we were now meeting, and exchanging pleasantries with, other walkers. I’m sure our words for those nearing the top – an “almost there” or a “the worst is over” – were welcome. As we got further down, it was better to stick to “where are you from?” or “what are your plans?” Sometimes the brutal truth (“You’re looking stuffed. Sorry to tell you you’re not even half-way”) is best avoided.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Such “games”, if that’s the right word, eased us to the end of the track. Even so it seemed to take longer than I expected, even though I’ve walked this track 15-20 times. It didn’t help that I’d almost run out of water as I trudged into the very full carpark. A warm mouthful from the bottom of my Camelbak didn’t quite satisfy.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Once we’d loaded the cars and made it down to Earthwater Café near Mole Creek, all that was forgotten. We’d made it in time for a cooked lunch, and there were plenty of good choices in both food and drink. To spare other diners our malodorous presence, we sat outside at a long table set beneath some large deciduous trees. If this was a compromise, it’s one I’d choose every (fine) day. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuMe9EMXg9A_0WaO_XdzGAMIt5KEB0uL0ivQs0PfH6tmE_AbOsT_N_ARXoU7oqE8gxsADSKViBdvoO2RXEmORQDJ3AQgCURMmLm6XDYnXVRDburrDiFJrS87HRX-3vytqEmvernDDM5rU/s2048/BP+to+WoJ79.jpg" style="font-family: Calibri; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1365" data-original-width="2048" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuMe9EMXg9A_0WaO_XdzGAMIt5KEB0uL0ivQs0PfH6tmE_AbOsT_N_ARXoU7oqE8gxsADSKViBdvoO2RXEmORQDJ3AQgCURMmLm6XDYnXVRDburrDiFJrS87HRX-3vytqEmvernDDM5rU/w400-h266/BP+to+WoJ79.jpg" width="400" /></a></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: center;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #38761d;"><i>[Happy campers at Earthwater Cafe]</i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;">For most of us it had been a great walk, with some neat variations on our last walk on the Plateau. The fierce, wet winds that blew for 48 hours or more now seemed a distant memory. More prominent was the honour we felt to have found and followed substantial parts of Ritters Track at last. Larry and Tim were especially happy about that. Their judicious use of the sometimes dodgy GPS data was superb. And if Jim’s illness had partly spoiled the walk for him, we had to applaud his guts (pun intended) in making it to the end. Besides, with a beer in hand and fish and chips on the way, he looked as happy as, well, Larry – and everyone else. </span><i><o:p></o:p></i></span></p>Nature Scribehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12727570990616097487noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5268236451961589916.post-3037190447599112972021-05-02T15:54:00.003+10:002021-05-02T15:54:42.466+10:00Central Plateau Variations: Part 4<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><p class="MsoPlainText" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><span style="color: #38761d; font-size: x-large;"><b><i>Y</i></b></span>ou can’t bargain with Tasmania’s highland weather. It’s pointless arguing that you’ve suffered so much tough weather that “tomorrow it shall be fine!” </span><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">Still, hope springs eternal, and the signs were good. At the end of day 4 of our Central Highlands walk, the wind had dropped to a whisper. Indeed, for the first time on the trip we could hear the night-time snores from neighbouring tents.</span></p><p class="MsoPlainText" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoPlainText" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: center;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEif1anCc-G73dUQhpHofgAh9vhPX7e07Aet3xSdL0cRbXbxG_XXRnmG0rWoMUYCr9A5jxrknds9AIAtbPODXgjhTL8wfz0oCc3XWQTjXSOsqNLSsyqNaT4YoJ95IDJpjteGIlkIwk4U6NM/s2048/BP+to+WoJ61.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1365" data-original-width="2048" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEif1anCc-G73dUQhpHofgAh9vhPX7e07Aet3xSdL0cRbXbxG_XXRnmG0rWoMUYCr9A5jxrknds9AIAtbPODXgjhTL8wfz0oCc3XWQTjXSOsqNLSsyqNaT4YoJ95IDJpjteGIlkIwk4U6NM/w400-h266/BP+to+WoJ61.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #38761d;"><i>[An </i><span style="caret-color: rgb(56, 118, 29);"><i>optimistic spider web at Pencil Pine Tarn]</i></span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #38761d;"><span style="caret-color: rgb(56, 118, 29);"><i><br /></i></span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">So we began day 5 with the same optimism as the spiders that shared the pencil pine grove with us. They’d been busy spinning webs, anxious, I imagine, to catch some food after a few days of wind famine. And now the sun shone on web and tent alike. The wind a mere memory, the sky brilliantly blue, the weather angels singing: it was a perfect day to retrace some of yesterday’s wander on Ritter’s Track, and go beyond into the Walls of Jerusalem.</span></div><p class="MsoPlainText" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoPlainText" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdiAY3-63V89yaESuIhNJzStUbgCWdH2lgvwb-oBIf8DZI2Oo54mQUrLiqud6QHL5iLTxhVokTUMpGbv72Od5vnfx9ePoaA8SPI_SzLZdDe680qTxdfR0QIk0O4QTs2V00nUx4xATh8is/s2048/BP+to+WoJ64.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1365" data-original-width="2048" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdiAY3-63V89yaESuIhNJzStUbgCWdH2lgvwb-oBIf8DZI2Oo54mQUrLiqud6QHL5iLTxhVokTUMpGbv72Od5vnfx9ePoaA8SPI_SzLZdDe680qTxdfR0QIk0O4QTs2V00nUx4xATh8is/w400-h266/BP+to+WoJ64.jpg" width="400" /></a></p><p class="MsoPlainText" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: center;"><br /></p><p class="MsoPlainText" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #38761d;"><i>[Tim looking towards the Walls of Jerusalem]</i></span></p><p class="MsoPlainText" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><o:p><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoPlainText" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">We got away uncharacteristically early – for us – thinking we had a long day ahead, especially with Jim still feeling unwell. We took our time, ambling through a landscape that was now blissfully benign, soft underfoot, dotted with pools and tarns rimmed with sphagnum and pencil pines. It’s a country that’s wonderful in any weather, but this day, after those that preceded it, was one to savour. Even if it were possible for the grand scene to overwhelm, the small things could still give their quieter joy. I kept noticing, for instance, scatters of tiny yellow berries and similarly small red berries. It was as if careless wee folk had upset their applecarts.</span></p><p class="MsoPlainText" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoPlainText" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMpWQ6lqX8k6B6KTULLyAZ1yligJUuzu2YEPx1Z7VVV42F1ahH5DEXTmAnQ8Y9Y6EksW5zur7PwBLsZBdLdeZPbxgLhIyf4pdXEMQ6Ow_MUBRMaNO2nBKE0qSUaMaaqq5LfR6pgue4qTw/s2048/BP+to+WoJ10.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1365" data-original-width="2048" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMpWQ6lqX8k6B6KTULLyAZ1yligJUuzu2YEPx1Z7VVV42F1ahH5DEXTmAnQ8Y9Y6EksW5zur7PwBLsZBdLdeZPbxgLhIyf4pdXEMQ6Ow_MUBRMaNO2nBKE0qSUaMaaqq5LfR6pgue4qTw/w400-h266/BP+to+WoJ10.jpg" width="400" /></a></p><p class="MsoPlainText" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: center;"><br /></p><p class="MsoPlainText" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgb82LnYVp9LC6OUg8bfAdmS1VE59WUG-wqmtKMV47S98_2na_Reu1q7J2ZqkYDQFaowUDclLvZr2_b6oEpbeWp88JiGCUDNbEXqP7WTGWcI8JVn3GiEHSbtX0KEoOORdRrJn98ex7OEHk/s2048/BP+to+WoJ17.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1365" data-original-width="2048" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgb82LnYVp9LC6OUg8bfAdmS1VE59WUG-wqmtKMV47S98_2na_Reu1q7J2ZqkYDQFaowUDclLvZr2_b6oEpbeWp88JiGCUDNbEXqP7WTGWcI8JVn3GiEHSbtX0KEoOORdRrJn98ex7OEHk/w400-h266/BP+to+WoJ17.jpg" width="400" /></a></p><p class="MsoPlainText" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: center;"><br /></p><p class="MsoPlainText" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #38761d;"><i>[Gaultheria tasmanica berries ... or are they wee apples?]</i></span></p><p class="MsoPlainText" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><o:p><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoPlainText" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">Out front our two “navigational nerds”, Tim and Larry, again steered us along Ritter’s Track via the now familiar cairns. Once we passed the point we’d reached at the end of yesterday’s reconnoitre, our leaders focussed on quickly finding the next few cairns. By now Jim had slipped to the back of the group, his tank already low on fuel. When a helicopter flew over, he looked up longingly, as if it might be possible to flag a lift. It didn’t help that every time he caught up with the group, the leaders would start off again. Hearing Jim’s mutterings, I decided I’d join him at the back. Two voices might have better luck moderating the enthusiasm at the front of the group.</span></p><p class="MsoPlainText" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoPlainText" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpFgzEifxMprZA57g0rbSEqXGIUtd62lLILpsYuX2KE2V2HPyprYilx_LlujPUhJMmpXOw1eE9h5hAi8ZOY9Wqryg00TQrxK3fY7feTViR_ImD2Yhy7EPrzU_kFRGUApfdOENvzs3nunY/s2048/BP+to+WoJ66.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1365" data-original-width="2048" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpFgzEifxMprZA57g0rbSEqXGIUtd62lLILpsYuX2KE2V2HPyprYilx_LlujPUhJMmpXOw1eE9h5hAi8ZOY9Wqryg00TQrxK3fY7feTViR_ImD2Yhy7EPrzU_kFRGUApfdOENvzs3nunY/w400-h266/BP+to+WoJ66.jpg" width="400" /></a></p><p class="MsoPlainText" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: center;"><br /></p><p class="MsoPlainText" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #38761d;"><i>[Merran takes in the blissful scene]</i></span></p><p class="MsoPlainText" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><o:p><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoPlainText" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">After a couple of hours we passed between the aptly-named Long Tarns and Lake Butters, neither of which we could see. But we did find a delightful smaller lake, and paused there for scroggin and water. On our last traverse of this country, we’d been further north. I remembered that getting across Richea Ridge, west of Long Tarns, had been rough and quite scrubby. We were hopeful that this time, being further south and “on” Ritter’s Track – if you could ever truly say that – we might find an easier route, perhaps avoiding Richea Ridge altogether. </span></p><p class="MsoPlainText" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><o:p><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoPlainText" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">No such luck. The cairns were now as sporadic as they were dubious. There was nothing for it but to take a rough bearing west towards Lake Tyre. That took us up, over, around and through some rocky, scrubby bush. The fact that it was riddled with <i>Richea scoparia</i> strongly hinted to us that we hadn’t avoided Richea Ridge after all. </span></p><p class="MsoPlainText" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoPlainText" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2oi-Hm9gHsbdQviUFHTz0hmvfO-kJE1Gsh03IdOKSpbzLLvjl7bJftX8iCzeA43v8dWZTlKf47e_NF4EMZJEcSXQPEsNQGYpVJKE9m7vyJzlEEavMvH26QlKDPlSI3u3JUzJp8ItLDpY/s2048/BP+to+WoJ62.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1365" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2oi-Hm9gHsbdQviUFHTz0hmvfO-kJE1Gsh03IdOKSpbzLLvjl7bJftX8iCzeA43v8dWZTlKf47e_NF4EMZJEcSXQPEsNQGYpVJKE9m7vyJzlEEavMvH26QlKDPlSI3u3JUzJp8ItLDpY/w426-h640/BP+to+WoJ62.jpg" width="426" /></a></p><p class="MsoPlainText" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: center;"><br /></p><p class="MsoPlainText" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #38761d;"><i>[Yes, there was NO WIND!]</i></span></p><p class="MsoPlainText" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><o:p><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoPlainText" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIPIHkvGdRt_sxjEGZ9ISTCBPBtYchkofZgsoaWxhwgqKER8A3Jj_cpIgYc2smiRNRHetd-bivBCfxlchjZlUJxDHqAGrfwbRzwOMsw3BObgMr_y5xcpdn5Ck32nqWxNToO0dW91L0MUc/s2048/BP+to+WoJ70.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1365" data-original-width="2048" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIPIHkvGdRt_sxjEGZ9ISTCBPBtYchkofZgsoaWxhwgqKER8A3Jj_cpIgYc2smiRNRHetd-bivBCfxlchjZlUJxDHqAGrfwbRzwOMsw3BObgMr_y5xcpdn5Ck32nqWxNToO0dW91L0MUc/w400-h266/BP+to+WoJ70.jpg" width="400" /></a></p><p class="MsoPlainText" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: center;"><br /></p><p class="MsoPlainText" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #38761d;"><i>[Getting closer to Mt Jerusalem]</i></span></p><p class="MsoPlainText" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoPlainText" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">It was hot, sweaty work on this warm, sunny afternoon. We were glad when we finally began to descend towards the valley flanking Mount Jerusalem. </span><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">We were tempted to stroll down the now clear valley towards Zion Gate. However we’d learned on our last trip that we had to stay one valley east. This necessitated a bothersome trudge up a bushy hill which earlier in the morning would have seemed nothing. We had some reward at the top in the form of a view of Lake Tyre’s south-eastern shore. The sting in the tail was that our preferred campsite was on the north-western shore, another few hundred metres away, and through some scrub.</span></p><p class="MsoPlainText" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoPlainText" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: center;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiylUhnfXbFPAXLUgdVllGRFXs0R8pfXB9Qs2mFybOQgO7Ve8_vwDjXwEA0KtPa2XhCJOK8MPnPCxx_0dEakfpf2aXaLPTzyCEpbev6KG9mJh-0-IGqry3h-UcLctw4hPz-Ex0pZ0l5RG8/s2048/BP+to+WoJ73.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1365" data-original-width="2048" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiylUhnfXbFPAXLUgdVllGRFXs0R8pfXB9Qs2mFybOQgO7Ve8_vwDjXwEA0KtPa2XhCJOK8MPnPCxx_0dEakfpf2aXaLPTzyCEpbev6KG9mJh-0-IGqry3h-UcLctw4hPz-Ex0pZ0l5RG8/w400-h266/BP+to+WoJ73.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #38761d;"><i>[Tent set-up at Lake Tyre, with Mt Jerusalem behind]</i></span></div><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><br /></span></div>Still, we reached the campsite by mid afternoon. We may have been hot and tired but, in the words of young Mr Grace, "</span><i style="font-family: trebuchet;">we’d all done very well</i><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">". Once we’d put up our tents, drunk a litre of water, and settled into our Helinox chairs (if we had them!) our day 5 optimism started to look justified. Some rare days in the highlands go just as you hoped they might.</span></div><p></p>Nature Scribehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12727570990616097487noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5268236451961589916.post-68125811887111738662021-04-16T16:15:00.000+10:002021-04-16T16:15:39.934+10:00 Central Plateau Variations: Part 3<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMZMP8OJ__DISdp1ZTLGvIxP4caTFf4lB1_r9dr77WKE4FVPkZCmzQAUswMqG29eGpx5fkdwfPekGVxJl7YSnb-kAa3Ih5kDnkg5Hfb1IE9YOPf6OOcgnA-C1KCDIKCHlLjCiiQI2elsg/s2048/BP+to+WoJ7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1365" data-original-width="2048" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMZMP8OJ__DISdp1ZTLGvIxP4caTFf4lB1_r9dr77WKE4FVPkZCmzQAUswMqG29eGpx5fkdwfPekGVxJl7YSnb-kAa3Ih5kDnkg5Hfb1IE9YOPf6OOcgnA-C1KCDIKCHlLjCiiQI2elsg/w400-h266/BP+to+WoJ7.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #38761d;"><i>[Who else has walked here?]</i></span></div><p></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">It’s rare to walk the Earth and not be following in the footsteps of others. At our first campsite, we’d sat relaxed and content – when the weather allowed – and imagined the Palawa, Tasmania’s Aboriginal people, doing much the same over tens of thousands of years. The shelter, the water, the hunting, the clear views, would all have made this a wonderful summer place. What stories, songs and dances must they have shared here, and passed on for countless generations?</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSpJuxFZSBAFajElLZMII61_T0PyOvO-9LyfqAF5DYcvPff0K9x0oYi6JouTKE0XyXJFtErD0FHMUEvJ7ze5OORjDz-1KatvsNcFsAwevwcAlp4Qte8aSxfl6mRuFF_ukI8F9wo4byvCU/s2048/IMG_9375.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1365" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSpJuxFZSBAFajElLZMII61_T0PyOvO-9LyfqAF5DYcvPff0K9x0oYi6JouTKE0XyXJFtErD0FHMUEvJ7ze5OORjDz-1KatvsNcFsAwevwcAlp4Qte8aSxfl6mRuFF_ukI8F9wo4byvCU/w426-h640/IMG_9375.jpg" width="426" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #38761d;"><i>[A place of contentment]</i></span></div><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">For the Palawa, European invasion stopped all that, whether though disease, forced eviction, or deliberate killings. Others would now eye off this high country for their own purposes, and they did so quickly. In the 1830s, when G. A. Robinson (the so-called protector of Aboriginals), travelled through the Central Plateau to round up any remaining Aboriginals, he noted that “</span><i style="font-family: trebuchet;">wild cattle was seen grazing … and several young calves appeared among them</i><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">”. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">So this “empty” Central Plateau became a favoured place on which to summer livestock. It’s estimated that between 1860 and 1920, up to 350,000 sheep and 6,000 cattle were summered up here annually. This is tranhumance on a grander scale than I’d ever imagined. Gradually cattle became more highly favoured than sheep, and by the late 1870s, settlers from the Mersey Valley and surrounding districts had acquired cattle grazing leases on the plateau. They built tracks such as Higgs Track, Warners Track and Dixons Track so they could drive stock up to the high country each summer.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">But as we were discovering first hand, the “warmer” months on the plateau can still be harsh, making navigation difficult. Around 1913 a farmer from Meander named Charles Ritter, who had leases in the Walls of Jerusalem area, thought to make a safer all-weather drove route from the top of Higgs Track/Ironstone Hut area to the Walls. It was probably completed by 1918, and became known as Ritters Track. While it was called a track, I had long wondered whether it was ever more than a series of large rock cairns that could be followed even in rough weather. On our fourth day, we were hoping to find out for ourselves.</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuZ8Cn0RSzFcgCaHlmRfwppNMpjePXxXfJSXmsqchw3vOqrA8wHrwpgZIxDShxk6IC2Sni3lb9B1Nx3gC3-fIensDfiN_LjiUfDegQFfmyrMwRvLB5CoIdfZNtE07Ldzdw7o_pWmkFTek/s1367/Ritters+old+map.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1367" data-original-width="840" height="664" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuZ8Cn0RSzFcgCaHlmRfwppNMpjePXxXfJSXmsqchw3vOqrA8wHrwpgZIxDShxk6IC2Sni3lb9B1Nx3gC3-fIensDfiN_LjiUfDegQFfmyrMwRvLB5CoIdfZNtE07Ldzdw7o_pWmkFTek/w409-h664/Ritters+old+map.jpg" width="409" /></a></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #38761d;"><i>[An old sketch map by Keith Lancaster, showing Ritters Track]</i></span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">The night had been exceedingly windy, and none of us had slept much. Jim wasn't feeling great after a poor sleep punctuated by some unwelcome toilet trips in the dark. We’d already decided to adapt our schedule, allowing for another night here at Pencil Pine Tarn, and a short wander today. That meant Jim could stay back and “keep our camp secure”, which he generously volunteered to do. The rest of us would pack lunch and a day pack, and go in search of Ritters Track.</span></p><p></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">Three years earlier we’d half-heartedly looked for some cairns between here and Long Tarns. That time we’d only had some rough, third-hand notes, and our explorations hadn’t allowed us to say with any certainty that the cairns we found were part of Ritters Track. This time, we had not one but two lots of GPS data indicating the supposed locations of Ritter’s cairns. The only thing against us was the weather, which remained showery and ferociously windy: in short exactly the kind of weather Ritter hoped his track would deal with.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRbiGDIreLEKNWn3T8oBGLTPljVQ_btbJNB7eMANUbWOPLmlOmsDog1LEE9EzXYEMhyPcS9Tv7UdUDv7RJt2pedwe2JvZhFtbBHL_exENJK_YITA-BXSJ434bMPf2P9AWJwkhjXJmlaHE/s2048/BP+to+WoJ31.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="font-family: trebuchet; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1365" data-original-width="2048" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRbiGDIreLEKNWn3T8oBGLTPljVQ_btbJNB7eMANUbWOPLmlOmsDog1LEE9EzXYEMhyPcS9Tv7UdUDv7RJt2pedwe2JvZhFtbBHL_exENJK_YITA-BXSJ434bMPf2P9AWJwkhjXJmlaHE/w400-h266/BP+to+WoJ31.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i style="color: #38761d;">[Tim contemplates the route]</i></div><p></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">Tim and Larry, our two GPS-bearers, lead the way, at first taking us almost east, seemingly back to where we’d come from. I expressed my surprise, but Tim assured me we’d soon swing south. And once we’d picked up a cairn, we’d start heading more south-west. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">Before long one of our navigators signalled us to join him. According to his GPS, we were within 20 metres of one of the cairns. But what were we looking for? A pile of rocks in a landscape made of rocks? And rocks that have been glaciated, ice-shattered, and scattered about willy-nilly over aeons? The five of us wandered about, a little clueless, until someone finally had their eureka moment. </span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibYsPCDxHADAV1cXmllfGgiTne_moCV6rCsklvDg8Pr9lA-MgjKBFUJzLH4tmZxhKb4B3OXfLk5vr0iIKxF4mblTwY2ByjvOcoLCJc7OgFJFf92iKNB6R-5jQGfiDuU7WGHm8Y1i3KrwM/s2048/BP+to+WoJ33.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1365" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibYsPCDxHADAV1cXmllfGgiTne_moCV6rCsklvDg8Pr9lA-MgjKBFUJzLH4tmZxhKb4B3OXfLk5vr0iIKxF4mblTwY2ByjvOcoLCJc7OgFJFf92iKNB6R-5jQGfiDuU7WGHm8Y1i3KrwM/w426-h640/BP+to+WoJ33.jpg" width="426" /></a></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #38761d;"><i>[Surely a Ritters Track cairn?]</i></span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">We hurried over towards an obviously human creation: four or five rocks piled high atop a large boulder, forming a rough and wonky pyramid. If the cairn’s size wasn’t the clincher, the mop of long, grey/green lichen on the rocks was. This indicated it was no recent or random cairn, but one put here deliberately, and many decades ago.</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFV1q53FiLCw_i5zv-ucPHrKd3Zbn4xkkv1me6HAmiEFVM_dUWts1khxHulbO23lTTUAWnnb4wHOjY8ebMxpsKG3-Q9h_TjSpt7TqTqgpoSoXB5XjNWUaIU9rPHqLol3lqvLE_pD26-nk/s2048/BP+to+WoJ36.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1365" data-original-width="2048" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFV1q53FiLCw_i5zv-ucPHrKd3Zbn4xkkv1me6HAmiEFVM_dUWts1khxHulbO23lTTUAWnnb4wHOjY8ebMxpsKG3-Q9h_TjSpt7TqTqgpoSoXB5XjNWUaIU9rPHqLol3lqvLE_pD26-nk/w400-h266/BP+to+WoJ36.jpg" width="400" /></a></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #38761d;"><i>[Tim and Larry spy out the next cairn]</i></span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">The next couple of hours saw us slowly following our navigational nerds from cairn to cairn. Sometimes the next cairn was visible from the current one, but at other times we were glad to have the GPS data. This was not the sort of “track” that, once found, you could easily follow. Apparently Ritter didn’t choose a straight-line route towards the Walls of Jerusalem (which today was clear to see ahead of us). Rather he kept to higher, less boggy ground, winding around the plateau on ground over which cattle could more easily move.</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyiZkypK5oH58lsNcWapD9207XJavASFXPioOUuaitKFK__RqcEIH_GllU-jwHIli4s-vh2kRZYiRE_c3rIateybvUQ2_VjO1DvXnesUViFIzRwy2C7ZxKXTy8B7yCA0w6yX702OzjNq8/s2048/BP+to+WoJ40.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1365" data-original-width="2048" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyiZkypK5oH58lsNcWapD9207XJavASFXPioOUuaitKFK__RqcEIH_GllU-jwHIli4s-vh2kRZYiRE_c3rIateybvUQ2_VjO1DvXnesUViFIzRwy2C7ZxKXTy8B7yCA0w6yX702OzjNq8/w400-h266/BP+to+WoJ40.jpg" width="400" /></a></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #38761d;"><i>[A clear view towards the Walls of Jerusalem]</i></span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">Another matter sometimes confused us. We found multiple other cairns dotted across the landscape. Some we considered Ritteresque: good copies, but not originals. Others were mere wannabes: poor imitations that lacked size or age, the creation perhaps of bushwalkers or anglers. Our rule of thumb was that a true Ritter cairn would be substantial, vaguely pyramidal, made with care, and bearded with lichen. We came to admire the labour that Charles Ritter, presumably with the help of his fellow drovers, had put into building the many dozens of cairns. The heavy rocks would have taken some effort to move, and the conditions for doing that work would seldom have been ideal.</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgu90-J6sgs8Hh5cgXbRmLur7BJCWFF-b_9C7wOsDWkWvCTsxYbhui5oW8zXgTLP4a-IPkb8lh6zu-vYANA0PkTykE3itwHf1Xfqj1bJlipmxM36WTtoOi38Tc_fyz1baOzY6Oaji0V56A/s2048/BP+to+WoJ38.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1365" data-original-width="2048" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgu90-J6sgs8Hh5cgXbRmLur7BJCWFF-b_9C7wOsDWkWvCTsxYbhui5oW8zXgTLP4a-IPkb8lh6zu-vYANA0PkTykE3itwHf1Xfqj1bJlipmxM36WTtoOi38Tc_fyz1baOzY6Oaji0V56A/w400-h266/BP+to+WoJ38.jpg" width="400" /></a></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #38761d;"><i>[Libby inspects another genuine Ritter cairn]</i></span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">As we walked, we imagined driving cattle through this terrain. How different it would have been to walk or ride here accompanied by the sound of hoofs and mooing; the steam from their breath; the swish of their tails; the slop of the slush beneath their hard hoofs; the smell of dung and drover alike. We could admire, celebrate even, the hard labour of these cattlemen, without wishing that this was still happening. Clearly driving and grazing cattle between here and the central Walls – where the best grazing was found – made a mess, and altered the landscape hugely. The unsustainability of the practice, both environmentally and economically, led to grazing being prohibited above the 3000ft contour (914m) in 1973. </span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh90Yte3qQsG8QpjDfHk9z0taX1ZYpBguaCfu6gjYgU7PUeienMdwwipRzT0j2gaKcTVk_l4TWX4yEYuVM3lIEau5tmMQGgKDN98hoLyV6KkVqX50tZfX2BjUcnE6HlumcfNz8A6NiQEi4/s2048/BP+to+WoJ48.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1365" data-original-width="2048" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh90Yte3qQsG8QpjDfHk9z0taX1ZYpBguaCfu6gjYgU7PUeienMdwwipRzT0j2gaKcTVk_l4TWX4yEYuVM3lIEau5tmMQGgKDN98hoLyV6KkVqX50tZfX2BjUcnE6HlumcfNz8A6NiQEi4/w400-h266/BP+to+WoJ48.jpg" width="400" /></a></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #38761d;"><i>[Tim and Merran at our lunch stop]</i></span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">While it had been fascinating to follow the footsteps of Ritter, after lunch it was time to complete our off-track loop back to the campsite. We were beginning to wonder how another grey-bearded fixture was doing. We found Jim relaxing in the sun, which had finally made a welcome return. As Tim placed his small solar panel in the same patch of sun as Jim, I remarked that we now had two solar collectors. Then, over a relaxing afternoon tea, we swapped stories of our day. Jim noticed that a couple of us were red in the face, and when we conjectured that a combination of windburn and sunburn might be to blame, he was all the gladder for his rest day.</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1DhqAIG9UNUatE1_GY4UHXPgaAXTat2AI9qV52nWCh9YgSFuf1yXQF-o5R5WJF21cHChLAl7WYD6DRt0gMLkYsO9gIX3dVPGwXEmHrbJY2Zn9B4acKoSsvrJDvhvkZSQZz3mYVB1PtPM/s2048/BP+to+WoJ59.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1365" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1DhqAIG9UNUatE1_GY4UHXPgaAXTat2AI9qV52nWCh9YgSFuf1yXQF-o5R5WJF21cHChLAl7WYD6DRt0gMLkYsO9gIX3dVPGwXEmHrbJY2Zn9B4acKoSsvrJDvhvkZSQZz3mYVB1PtPM/w426-h640/BP+to+WoJ59.jpg" width="426" /></a></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #38761d;"><i>[Two solar collectors hard at work]</i></span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">When the shade from the pines started overtaking us, we followed the sun up the hill. It was good to gain a little altitude, to change our perspective, and to feel a windless sun after 48 hours of gales. Eventually we wandered back down to the camp, and we were soon off to our tents. How good it felt to be in that now quiet space, without wind tearing my every thought away.</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgZpa2yozSR6-GgnitiRzxYKEVBiwEE7_MXGKUTcpMcr7yuDZxbQkeQr_k2OOj80ezUMRwmeVcYZjz41go7ORyJ3JhBr7Ka9ui8Y1Ou3knQSRIO1xo_1EhhdIqKNtWjBsb5WCA-xWdPwM/s2048/BP+to+WoJ51.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1365" data-original-width="2048" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgZpa2yozSR6-GgnitiRzxYKEVBiwEE7_MXGKUTcpMcr7yuDZxbQkeQr_k2OOj80ezUMRwmeVcYZjz41go7ORyJ3JhBr7Ka9ui8Y1Ou3knQSRIO1xo_1EhhdIqKNtWjBsb5WCA-xWdPwM/w400-h266/BP+to+WoJ51.jpg" width="400" /></a></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #38761d;"><i>[A calm Pencil Pine Tarn]</i></span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">In that calm state, I began to ponder on our walk, and to think about the footsteps we had followed to this point. Whether it was those of the Palawa, those of the cattlemen, or those of the pioneer bushwalkers, the ones who were here before us are now gone. Without feeling at all morbid, I apprehended afresh my own impermanence. None of us – grey-bearded or not – will hang around even as long as Ritter’s cairns. Sooner or later each of us will follow in the footsteps of those who are gone. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">It was in a time of pandemic, nearly 400 years ago, that poet John Donne reflected so powerfully on this. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><i>No man is an island, </i></span></p><p><i style="font-family: trebuchet;">entire of itself, </i></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><i>every man is a piece of the continent, </i></span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><i>a part of the main; … </i></span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><i>any man's death diminishes me, </i></span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><i>because I am involved in mankind, </i></span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><i>And therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; </i></span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><i>It tolls for thee. </i></span></p>Nature Scribehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12727570990616097487noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5268236451961589916.post-2486405051755100672021-04-09T16:59:00.000+10:002021-04-09T16:59:15.825+10:00 Central Plateau Variations: Part 2<blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnGiChbkSxQHh08yn43UO0ubElViAnRZ6vTRAXLLLCUgdHvcuf78NbLarMNsn5Ug5-QnwXyZPqTiiQpkUK8xThqkojGqo4eaj9KciA6nLdCenf07aZAcvvPrKhG2dT3uYKPnJG0oKHqus/s2048/BP+to+WoJ21.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1365" data-original-width="2048" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnGiChbkSxQHh08yn43UO0ubElViAnRZ6vTRAXLLLCUgdHvcuf78NbLarMNsn5Ug5-QnwXyZPqTiiQpkUK8xThqkojGqo4eaj9KciA6nLdCenf07aZAcvvPrKhG2dT3uYKPnJG0oKHqus/w400-h266/BP+to+WoJ21.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i style="color: #38761d;">[Once more into the Central Plateau]</i></td></tr></tbody></table></blockquote></blockquote><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"></table></blockquote></blockquote><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><b style="color: #351c75;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><i>"I live my life in widening circles</i></span> </b></blockquote></blockquote></blockquote></blockquote></blockquote><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><i style="font-family: trebuchet;"><span style="color: #351c75;"><b>that reach out across the world.</b></span></i></blockquote></blockquote></blockquote></blockquote></blockquote><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><i style="font-family: trebuchet;"><span style="color: #351c75;"><b>I may not complete this last one</b></span></i></blockquote></blockquote></blockquote></blockquote></blockquote><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><p><i style="font-family: trebuchet;"><span style="color: #351c75;"><b>but I will give myself to it."</b></span></i></p></blockquote></blockquote></blockquote></blockquote></blockquote><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">- Rainer Maria Rilke</span></div></div></blockquote></blockquote></blockquote></blockquote></blockquote></blockquote><div style="text-align: left;"><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">Over time our walks across the roof of Tasmania have developed a sense that, like Rilke, we are travelling in ever widening circles. It’s a place that invites you to walk to the horizon, just to find out what’s beyond. If, on our last walk, we’d only half-heartedly looked for traces of Ritters Track, this time we planned to give ourselves fully to the </span><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">search</span><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">, this time with GPS-assistance.</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">But Rilke’s metaphor begs another question. When do you know that your latest “widening circle” is to be your last? Or to put it into our context, how do you know that you’re on your last big bushwalk? I wasn’t aware of it at the time, but thoughts like this were going through Jim’s mind as the six of us slowly roused ourselves from our tents the next morning.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">It had been a rough night. Strong winds and squally showers had disturbed the sleep of most of us, and I was only woozily awake when I heard Jim’s voice outside my tent. <i>“Cap’n, cap’n, you awake?”</i>* Without waiting for an answer he went on. <i>“I have a cunning plan. You seen the weather?”</i></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">I unzipped the tent and poked my head out to find that we’d been enveloped in cloud, our long views replaced by a close grey murk. The wind was shaking the pencil pines, and Jim was in his rain jacket. Welcome to the Central Plateau! As for Jim’s cunning plan, he was suggesting a retreat. We could head back to Tim and Merran’s place, and base ourselves in the warm, dry comfort of their cottage, and do day walks from there.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><br /></span></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUiGk6_s3X4ctgc-9LcXuGd28wmgljljjQ15vzkSCNAKaESA58dipAaISrNAqAyxekC1yUwhbEOlgZXAhCTygcbiyrj7AEBgzpfCOzGopKJc1WbsQyF5_02QlaVZWE5gQtZ-PEu19ksxc/s2048/BP+to+WoJ17.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1365" data-original-width="2048" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUiGk6_s3X4ctgc-9LcXuGd28wmgljljjQ15vzkSCNAKaESA58dipAaISrNAqAyxekC1yUwhbEOlgZXAhCTygcbiyrj7AEBgzpfCOzGopKJc1WbsQyF5_02QlaVZWE5gQtZ-PEu19ksxc/w400-h266/BP+to+WoJ17.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #38761d;"><i>[Gaultheria berries thriving in harsh conditions]</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table></td></tr></tbody></table><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">Certainly I’d seen more encouraging walking weather, but Jim’s response to it seemed disproportionate. If we followed the original plan, and walked to our next sheltered campsite, we only had to brave these conditions for 3 hours or so. I questioned Jim a little more, and found out that he was also feeling </span><i style="font-family: trebuchet;">“a bit off”</i><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">. Considering he has a chronic health issue that means he often lives with a degree of nausea and/or dizziness, this didn’t sound like a walk ending scenario.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">It didn’t take long for the rest of us to convince Jim that we should stick with our original plan. He toyed with the idea of walking back to the car solo, and coming to pick us up at the end of the trip, but in the end he went with the majority. As if to reinforce our decision, a few patches of blue appeared between squalls. We slowly packed up, and walked off into strongly gusting winds, but only intermittent showers. As we got into a rhythm, I was pleased to hear Jim having a good, loud catch-up conversation with Tim. Perhaps his mood would improve, and he’d be his normal life-of-the-party self. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2yxyEwhBpV1YoZjPhXB6mIfOsOcfheHwh4YmDNubQMasmkHst4mzePBjRRr0uf4KjARxjiIQmsKWYYRrSfj8A1D6YqTwYeDOK2TCy3_nkK0PLf-kMoEnTYZ-GJPZ43uLC2NB7UdfFpjM/s2048/BP+to+WoJ23.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1365" data-original-width="2048" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2yxyEwhBpV1YoZjPhXB6mIfOsOcfheHwh4YmDNubQMasmkHst4mzePBjRRr0uf4KjARxjiIQmsKWYYRrSfj8A1D6YqTwYeDOK2TCy3_nkK0PLf-kMoEnTYZ-GJPZ43uLC2NB7UdfFpjM/w400-h266/BP+to+WoJ23.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i style="color: #38761d;">["Gimme Shelter" - any rock will do]</i></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">Meanwhile the weather continued to challenge us. For a time our off-track route took us into the sheltering lee of higher ground. But for much of the walk the wind was so strong it threatened to blow us off our feet. I find this kind of feral weather, its sheer ferocity, strangely exhilarating. It’s a reminder that, for all our ingenuity, we’re not in control here. Still, being blown over was NOT the kind of uplifting experience we would have wished on Jim in his current state. As we took a break, I photographed Jim against the background of our morning’s route. <i>“Jim’s last walk”</i> he muttered into his beard.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTP5o9ahHvfea4Mxj2L5LBvIRhRjdmOWncDjlWx-Fnq7_btx5UtLxQiStJo1FBnOEtJOObn2AP0e60I_oLHTDhenWi2JZoQRc07yRjPDULe_0YD6hIAiLOQ70rlamhl2-QVXQWf1I7DIE/s2048/BP+to+WoJ24.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1365" data-original-width="2048" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTP5o9ahHvfea4Mxj2L5LBvIRhRjdmOWncDjlWx-Fnq7_btx5UtLxQiStJo1FBnOEtJOObn2AP0e60I_oLHTDhenWi2JZoQRc07yRjPDULe_0YD6hIAiLOQ70rlamhl2-QVXQWf1I7DIE/w400-h266/BP+to+WoJ24.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i style="color: #38761d;">[Jim's last walk? Not a happy camper.]</i></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">Having reached the pass leading into the next valley, we turned west and found a sheltered lunch spot among our friends the pencil pines. As we ate, we even had some warm sunshine, and the day looked suddenly benign. It didn’t last, of course, as we soon had to reenter the maelstrom. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpatvQ-D860fyd9uEyM11190UAYan29DkWqP40g-wcv9Kx0-Wvyh6wlZPV-j7ZylvF88SiDXtPSWzj5f5fnbvAPfMqTLYFOPcXxZsaJDFryPg93XHS45vOlJcL1OnLCG5mecVkw00GmbQ/s2048/Blue+Peaks+to+Walls+-+Larry.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1638" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpatvQ-D860fyd9uEyM11190UAYan29DkWqP40g-wcv9Kx0-Wvyh6wlZPV-j7ZylvF88SiDXtPSWzj5f5fnbvAPfMqTLYFOPcXxZsaJDFryPg93XHS45vOlJcL1OnLCG5mecVkw00GmbQ/w512-h640/Blue+Peaks+to+Walls+-+Larry.jpg" width="512" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i style="color: #38761d;">[Lunch among the pines - pic courtesy of Larry]</i></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">The constant wind was energy sapping in the extreme, and everyone was relieved to finally see our pine-dotted tarn up ahead. We’d sheltered there from a strong wind 3 years ago, and it looked as though history would repeat itself this year.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">We soon sussed out our tent spots. We were a little surprised that even here, deep in a substantial pine glade, the wind still managed to shake our tents. It was also cold by now, and we quickly decided that an early dinner and bed time made a lot of sense. As we cooked Jim still seemed lethargic, not wanting to bother getting out his cooking gear. Instead he asked around for any spare boiling water, scoring a hot cup-a-soup from me, and a bit of hot dinner from someone else. We were all finished and ready for bed by 5:30.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4-sK3sq5iUnxSDNaZb2R-uVh9jxxobpY2jr5eNX72aT_uSdrEcXlwWRcewMw119dWlabBcoPfj1fjf5WmjeWO2Ky3v_qqifrpNnsJ7mMjE4HOg36FiNkfnNQfIMruEhDSOTuLfDwRw5s/s2048/BP+to+WoJ25.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1365" data-original-width="2048" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4-sK3sq5iUnxSDNaZb2R-uVh9jxxobpY2jr5eNX72aT_uSdrEcXlwWRcewMw119dWlabBcoPfj1fjf5WmjeWO2Ky3v_qqifrpNnsJ7mMjE4HOg36FiNkfnNQfIMruEhDSOTuLfDwRw5s/w400-h266/BP+to+WoJ25.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i style="color: #38761d;">[Almost ready for bed: Pencil Pine Tarn]</i></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">All night the wind roared, the pines giving it a piercingly strident voice. At one stage I looked – in vain – for ear plugs in my first aid kit. It wouldn’t be snores from my fellow campers that would keep me awake tonight.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><br /></span></div><div><span> </span><span> </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: x-small;">* Back in the mists of time some of our regular walking group had taken to addressing each other as “Captain”, usually in a growly, pirate-inspired voice.</span></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /></div>Nature Scribehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12727570990616097487noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5268236451961589916.post-31213637283497154722021-04-04T15:39:00.004+10:002021-04-04T15:39:47.618+10:00Central Plateau Variations: Part 1<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZo9QWzjTnez_zg1PKmgKHZN6JJC139HCH26u1i5tXDv6iw-L_NaQFNqeiHuodfqk3ozoxbV8PBxiB5J4fdYmkfrovT8B-U1VHK_CE1a7yyg75cGwLeivfsDasercUyiCVYESVIO0ReD8/s2048/BP+to+WoJ3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1365" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZo9QWzjTnez_zg1PKmgKHZN6JJC139HCH26u1i5tXDv6iw-L_NaQFNqeiHuodfqk3ozoxbV8PBxiB5J4fdYmkfrovT8B-U1VHK_CE1a7yyg75cGwLeivfsDasercUyiCVYESVIO0ReD8/w426-h640/BP+to+WoJ3.jpg" width="426" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i style="color: #38761d;">[A bleak and windy day on Tasmania's Central Plateau]</i></div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">When it comes to bushwalks, there’s often a degree of cat herding. Dates, walkers, venues, vehicles and variations are all part of the mix. By the time those are settled, the weather for the walk can sometimes fall into the “like it or lump it” category. Certainly it would on this occasion.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">Our planned March walk would see six of us back in familiar territory, walking from Lake MacKenzie across Tasmania’s Central Plateau, into the Walls of Jerusalem. Most of us had done it 3 years earlier (<a href="http://www.naturescribe.com/2018/02/crossing-plateau-part-1.html">see here</a>), and loved the country so much that we welcomed the chance to return. One variation this time would be a more earnest search for the elusive Ritters Track. Another variation would be our arrival times. We’d be wandering in like Texas Rangers. (If that doesn’t ring a bell, treat yourself by checking out the first 45 seconds of this incredibly cheesy clip <a href="https://youtu.be/r2F4K7nbcgs">https://youtu.be/r2F4K7nbcgs</a>) </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUFKPBygq1W4LpMjVBYD4wwd8g_ackp3Q_Arkjj5zeiliyfVvOcS8oCHQOvouQtknGpviCW9DpDLL2WZ-Ri-gN9O6w5rL5dY9w-eS9rajWO9PkEn4Kxwh-GnRw5ngeAXB0_F9SatM9tO8/s2048/BP+to+WoJ.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1365" data-original-width="2048" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUFKPBygq1W4LpMjVBYD4wwd8g_ackp3Q_Arkjj5zeiliyfVvOcS8oCHQOvouQtknGpviCW9DpDLL2WZ-Ri-gN9O6w5rL5dY9w-eS9rajWO9PkEn4Kxwh-GnRw5ngeAXB0_F9SatM9tO8/w400-h266/BP+to+WoJ.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i style="color: #38761d;">[Three set off from Lake MacKenzie]</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">Libby was the first “Texas Ranger”, having chosen to walk in a few days early, keen for some solo time, as well as to try out a new tent. Jim, Larry and I would come in next, and meet Libby at our Blue Peaks campsite. Tim and Merran would join us there a day and a half later.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">One very neat variation was that Libby, Tim and Merran had already done a car shuffle for us, which would save Jim, Larry and me from having to leave a car at the Walls of Jerusalem carpark, and double back in another car to Lake MacKenzie to start our walk. So the three of us got going relatively early in cool, windy and sometimes showery weather. The weather was such that stopping was unpleasant, so we made good time and surprised Libby out of her tent mid afternoon.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinCvAUfRL7_KhB9Z3O8daAsywHoFfbLCa1tQQS8l8dKFEfrI8gBWWgjY1GBt-Gq-N6UFNaXL7jkfBwi0u-tB0DPZ-Gt37oEsp9YZJIF12h_aO5yY7NYndu1QyrWdIwOusd9YQw04X20AQ/s2048/BP+to+WoJ9.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1365" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinCvAUfRL7_KhB9Z3O8daAsywHoFfbLCa1tQQS8l8dKFEfrI8gBWWgjY1GBt-Gq-N6UFNaXL7jkfBwi0u-tB0DPZ-Gt37oEsp9YZJIF12h_aO5yY7NYndu1QyrWdIwOusd9YQw04X20AQ/w426-h640/BP+to+WoJ9.jpg" width="426" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i style="color: #38761d;">[Seeding mountain rocket bring colour to an overcast day]</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">She had tales of strong winds, sleet and even snow. She grinned as she explained she’d secretly been hoping for some snow. Nonetheless she had possum-wide eyes as she told us about the strong winds she’d had to deal with. (Her One Planet Goondie 1 had stood up to it perfectly.) By now the afternoon was a little calmer, and the two of us with Helinox chairs settled in for a comfortable cuppa, while the other two feigned indifference.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">On that count we carried a secret with us. Libby was, for now, sitting in a Helinox Chair Zero borrowed from Tim and Merran. But those two late comers would be bringing in a brand new one. It was one that we’d all shared in purchasing for Libby as a Covid-delayed wedding gift. This, of course, was to be a surprise to her. So it was hilarious when, after dinner, as we stacked the two "undressed" chairs in bushes out of the wind, spontaneous comments about the chairs exhibiting mating behaviour began to come out. How long, we idly wondered, was the gestation period of a chair? Perhaps the next morning would be a little too early for the appearance of any offspring. But later in the day: who was to know?</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqHhyphenhyphenfVIf50j_HljVg7T9PYrCuwfa6a11lxpYZq3MK79QXr-sVGGMUcsmFKMxGLH49pk4nzVHUFN7AWxbaSpsLWjlUoJ1SP4v4-I_9IRFr57vHLFyNKQjjuRmggCxxq0S2zACxb6hNKto/s2048/BP+to+WoJ4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1365" data-original-width="2048" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqHhyphenhyphenfVIf50j_HljVg7T9PYrCuwfa6a11lxpYZq3MK79QXr-sVGGMUcsmFKMxGLH49pk4nzVHUFN7AWxbaSpsLWjlUoJ1SP4v4-I_9IRFr57vHLFyNKQjjuRmggCxxq0S2zACxb6hNKto/w400-h266/BP+to+WoJ4.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i style="color: #38761d;">[The Helinox chairs getting "acquainted"]</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">Other excitements were to occupy us most of the next day. Neither Jim nor Libby had been to see the enormous cushion plant “colony” that Larry and a few of us had stumbled upon some years back. The weather more or less cooperated, and we set off towards that wonderfully small eminence, Little Throne. While we were winding our way around the end of one of the lakes, I was startled to find a tiger snake stretched out on some rocks over which I’d just jumped. It seemed little interested in moving, and we took our time to gawk at and photograph this beautifully marked creature. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigmi-B9NeqRVOTLYFrcpcAet9EXM0JM0jv2_r3fdugdf19gaByWPff-cyvp1Np8HlavjLuclLaao7B5tzFJV-ELS0DorwpY5PyY70NFGj3wyPnRKq7Db74_g-VBBwRjYjClSm4SZwIWwA/s2048/BP+to+WoJ6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1365" data-original-width="2048" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigmi-B9NeqRVOTLYFrcpcAet9EXM0JM0jv2_r3fdugdf19gaByWPff-cyvp1Np8HlavjLuclLaao7B5tzFJV-ELS0DorwpY5PyY70NFGj3wyPnRKq7Db74_g-VBBwRjYjClSm4SZwIWwA/w400-h266/BP+to+WoJ6.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #38761d; font-style: italic;">[A tiger snake sunning itself]</span></div><div><span style="color: #38761d; font-style: italic;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">A little while later, from the top of Little Throne, we were able to message Jim’s wife with a picture of the tiger. She, being a notorious snake-phobic, sent suitably shrieky messages back, and we all chuckled at Jim’s tease. </span><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">But not long afterwards I noticed Jim was not his usual jovial self. This became more apparent when he suggested that we might make this our turn-around point. We other three, all keen to see the enormous cushion plants, outvoted him. So he shrugged and reluctantly came with us.</span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHrnvzNcUw0atvOR4YKgrpMTce1lexlODI51XBRJw-T7guh2GNJB20tEOiV2ed4FHRjx1eBRj8dAeQquRIRevOjzzsdeZm6E1EHLBZEV6WfpR8W5ZxGpiAE87OOI-vZ2jJrA-PZMzucRo/s2048/BP+to+WoJ8.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1365" data-original-width="2048" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHrnvzNcUw0atvOR4YKgrpMTce1lexlODI51XBRJw-T7guh2GNJB20tEOiV2ed4FHRjx1eBRj8dAeQquRIRevOjzzsdeZm6E1EHLBZEV6WfpR8W5ZxGpiAE87OOI-vZ2jJrA-PZMzucRo/w400-h266/BP+to+WoJ8.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><span style="color: #38761d;">[Atop Little Throne]</span></i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I had a reasonable idea where we would find the cushion plants. However, not for the last time on this trip, I was glad to be walking with a navigational nerd. Larry had marked the spot on his GPS, and this saved us from wandering around too much before finding it. I’m not sure if it was the bleakish weather, or Jim’s bleakish mood, but there was not quite the excitement I’d expected in the presence of this botanical wonder. Still, we lingered and photographed at length what is still the largest cushion plant “forest” I have ever seen.</span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIkzZWFOiRETs88915qhv5kF_YUr5BCQ49V3UFHRoQqxjNe87Bd9EsbzM1XZAbDl0IYZ-0l_FtXtw4Zn9keVXCfj8V5j4F_8kZTAKDL-2TfMNEYkN64CrndqCy8iPNH3RBow6j8Uk-a7M/s2048/BP+to+WoJ16.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1365" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIkzZWFOiRETs88915qhv5kF_YUr5BCQ49V3UFHRoQqxjNe87Bd9EsbzM1XZAbDl0IYZ-0l_FtXtw4Zn9keVXCfj8V5j4F_8kZTAKDL-2TfMNEYkN64CrndqCy8iPNH3RBow6j8Uk-a7M/w426-h640/BP+to+WoJ16.jpg" width="426" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i style="color: #38761d;">[Part of the enormous cushion plant "forest"]</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBEiJAgP4GTqYvXAJFGhGtfZNLBFRnifAcX0WGa3Xfa4nWE1iPjlG0qzJlhxn1z8swGkVTWuCceW1v0N1AXCd_W0cQXG9O5x_hFlRzeNmqRWlscyiPkwezaI5JBv9hEMAzjbJC9jCQFyg/s2048/BP+to+WoJ14.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1365" data-original-width="2048" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBEiJAgP4GTqYvXAJFGhGtfZNLBFRnifAcX0WGa3Xfa4nWE1iPjlG0qzJlhxn1z8swGkVTWuCceW1v0N1AXCd_W0cQXG9O5x_hFlRzeNmqRWlscyiPkwezaI5JBv9hEMAzjbJC9jCQFyg/w400-h266/BP+to+WoJ14.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i style="color: #38761d;">[There are often many species in a cushion plant community]</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">Although the rain held off, the weather was becoming cloudier and cooler. So we wasted no time in getting back to our campsite, this time taking the more direct route through the lake-dotted lower country. We had calculated that Tim and Merran wouldn’t be with us until around 7pm, and in this weather that looked like being well after our bedtime. We’d all eaten dinner by 5, so it looked like some of us might have to rug up and wait around for our friends’ arrival. Then, just after Jim disappeared into his tent, we were surprised to see Tim and Merran coming over the rise and into our campsite.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">They’d managed to leave much earlier than expected, and had made good time in trying conditions. We gave them a bit of time to put up their tent, but before they’d finished cooking their dinner, the rest of us started <i>ahemmming</i> loudly. Tim, taking the hint, reached into his pack, and Merran handed over the gift chair to Libby. “They’ve had a baby” I called out, and we all laughed at the way our jokes had fitted so well with the timing of the gift. Libby was completely ‘rapt, not least because she wouldn’t now have to settle for a damp log for a seat.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgU5Oe0uWna3c0jVMXUZ1rYz5oaecTrY8XNI3AkmR1qaC7uKnHkHJ3jot1x9MccvIXQTuaME3TB0qnnlNn7YzpDfkjFg6fQpxLPxzmuf85yutvzlADnWM4DrCQ8Didp-MomRzTp3wQuhwY/s2048/BP+to+WoJ20.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1365" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgU5Oe0uWna3c0jVMXUZ1rYz5oaecTrY8XNI3AkmR1qaC7uKnHkHJ3jot1x9MccvIXQTuaME3TB0qnnlNn7YzpDfkjFg6fQpxLPxzmuf85yutvzlADnWM4DrCQ8Didp-MomRzTp3wQuhwY/w426-h640/BP+to+WoJ20.jpg" width="426" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i style="color: #38761d;"><br class="Apple-interchange-newline" />[Libby: a happy camper in her new chair]</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">And so we were all together at last. Tomorrow, we hoped, we’d all venture further into the Central Plateau. We knew, after all, that a Texas Ranger’s “work is never through”. </span></div></div></div></div></div></div><p></p>Nature Scribehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12727570990616097487noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5268236451961589916.post-34072037006192853872021-02-16T17:08:00.000+11:002021-02-16T17:08:03.614+11:00The Spirit of Bushwalking<p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><i><span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span></i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><i><i><i style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Covid-19 has been a blessing in disguise: Discuss.”</span></i></i></i></div><p></p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Perhaps it’s too soon for any examiner to dare set that question. But … might there be some truth in the statement? I’ll leave a fuller consideration of that to another time. Here I want to reflect on some of my own unexpected learnings (dare I call them blessings?) during two separate lots of Covid-19 lock-down.<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoRSV4IeNv9HFiE0oCYQB7Ub4OOAV1wsxQh7xmUgfdlrp513iq6a8LdhTgfnHoFmn_kg3TDKMJ809SfMir-Pa3vl-TdIaBHwTaBdlUZugQzlmkMfahX-UWJmIRuACwpCa-d3-645xu61I/s2048/IMG_9375.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 14.666666984558105px; font-style: italic; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1365" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoRSV4IeNv9HFiE0oCYQB7Ub4OOAV1wsxQh7xmUgfdlrp513iq6a8LdhTgfnHoFmn_kg3TDKMJ809SfMir-Pa3vl-TdIaBHwTaBdlUZugQzlmkMfahX-UWJmIRuACwpCa-d3-645xu61I/w426-h640/IMG_9375.jpg" width="426" /></a></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: center;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #38761d;"><i>[Pining for Scenes Like This]</i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">It didn’t take long before sourdough baking, Zoom meetings, Netflix bingeing, and too much eating and drinking, began to pall. I found myself, to borrow from Monty Python, <i>pinin’ for the fjords</i>. More accurately, I was pining for the Tasmanian wilderness. I passionately wanted to be out walking there, but the rules of lockdown meant I couldn’t stray far from home. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">As I pondered why I felt so strongly about my inability to be wild walking, I came to a surprising conclusion. I realised that in large part it was my <i>soul</i> that was pining to be out there. And that’s because, for me, walking has a strongly spiritual dimension to it*. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Bushwalking as spiritual? Surely it works the other way around, where the spiritual life is the focus, and words like <i>walk, journey, path</i>, or <i>way</i> are just figures of speech to help us understand it? Certainly moving feet have always seemed an ideal metaphor for the life of the spirit, as if soles and souls are deeply related. But what if this link between walking and spirit is more than just a metaphor? Might we legitimately speak of walking itself as spiritual?<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxrzhu8uEf2rpX0yIw59VxJnVHE9Ah1OClOUw3NRb7J7siYl10hmtvX9jxLpE4v7TxT-qWya09QeRjeIi4KCArKn16JCXZxPyKD4hQ7gOsOD1xWt2XfBfGju9pofmPebQZ0x2bWgwiONw/s2048/IMG_3340.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 14.666666984558105px; font-style: italic; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1365" data-original-width="2048" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxrzhu8uEf2rpX0yIw59VxJnVHE9Ah1OClOUw3NRb7J7siYl10hmtvX9jxLpE4v7TxT-qWya09QeRjeIi4KCArKn16JCXZxPyKD4hQ7gOsOD1xWt2XfBfGju9pofmPebQZ0x2bWgwiONw/w400-h266/IMG_3340.jpg" width="400" /></a></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: center;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #38761d;"><i>[Sole to Soul: Really?]</i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I spent much of lockdown reflecting on, and trying to write about, this link. I’ve come to call it the <i>sole to soul</i> connection. Most of that writing isn’t ready to be shown, but perhaps a sampler of that work might give some idea of the territory I’m trying to cover. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">This particular excerpt centres on practices: what bushwalkers might do to grow their own soul while out there walking. It’s tentative, brief, and incomplete, and it won’t suit all walkers. Let me know what you think!<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><b><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt;"> </span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">* (For now I will leave aside how we might define words like “soul” and “spiritual”.)</span><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><b><span style="font-family: Calibri;">1) Beyond Bragging<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><i><span style="font-family: Calibri;">We’re tramping in New Zealand’s Aspiring National Park. It’s raining, and our group stops at a hut for a snack and a drink. It’s mid morning, but the inside of the hut is still full. So we’re huddling under the shelter of the verandah when some of the incumbents come out, preparing to leave. We find out they’re also Australians, and we soon get chatting about where we’ve been and where we’re going, as you do when you meet other walkers. <o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><i><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><i><span style="font-family: Calibri;">But the talk soon takes on an unusual edge. This group, from one of Australia’s big cities, is uber keen to tell us how many other walks they’ve done, loudly and repeatedly. When we get a word in, they gleefully jump on any walk they learn we haven’t completed. “Oh dear! You haven’t seen New Zealand until you’ve done …” <o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; text-align: left;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Afterwards I tried to understand why this interaction dispirited me … and why I began introducing myself as a Tasmanian when in New Zealand! The truth is nobody actually enjoys hearing bragging, and I’ve since come to see things such as <i>“been-there-done-that”</i> tick lists, peak bagging, boasting about beating track times, talk of “conquering” mountains, being strongly competitive, and an over-fondness of your own fitness, as forms of bragging. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4eybtu1MNsNzt_oOAtiisgSKoGtoxYI-yhS1e-meOD070NyFOk8ttsIZCR3ZeEF8gjfIFI-6fce6fh5IqQS9ilfvABFc-n16oRbJ6eZRAiM2AnJLkfYOo0PyAzhHQ2Dt2k6Mcdx6VOco/s2048/IMG_4282.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 14.666666984558105px; font-style: italic; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4eybtu1MNsNzt_oOAtiisgSKoGtoxYI-yhS1e-meOD070NyFOk8ttsIZCR3ZeEF8gjfIFI-6fce6fh5IqQS9ilfvABFc-n16oRbJ6eZRAiM2AnJLkfYOo0PyAzhHQ2Dt2k6Mcdx6VOco/w480-h640/IMG_4282.jpg" width="480" /></a></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: center;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #274e13;"><i>[Bagging or Bragging?]</i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">All of those things tend to stroke the ego, and I’ve always found that ego, a strong sense of my self-importance, gets in the way of my soul’s growth. In the context of bushwalking, bragging not only pushes people away, it also pushes place out of focus. Place becomes a mere backdrop to my ego; a stage on which I strut and preen. That means I’m missing out on what the place has to teach me. In a real sense I am harming myself. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Most spiritual traditions caution against bragging. Going right back to the ancient Greeks, <i>hubris</i> was considered an insult to the gods. In Buddhist teaching there’s a specific warning against regarding yourself as superior on the basis of your body. Your body is impermanent and subject to change, therefore such boasting means you are not seeing reality. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">In the Christian tradition, there are plenty of pins to prick the braggart’s bubble. One example is Jesus’ parable about the pharisee who thanks God for his own piety and goodness in comparison with “sinners”. Jesus ends up inverting the situation with the line “<i>all who exalt themselves will be humbled, but all who humble themselves will be exalted</i>." (Luke 18:14)</span><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> In Hindu codes of conduct, followers are simply instructed: “<i>Do not boast. Shun pride and pretension</i>.” (Niyama 1) <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Of course none of us is immune from ego. A healthy human needs a healthy sense of self. But there are practices that can take us beyond bragging, beyond the need to stroke our own ego. Some of the practices that follow may help us to look beyond ourselves.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><b><span style="font-family: Calibri;">2) Being Creaturely<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><i><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Calibri;">I’m at a special place in the Tasmanian highlands: the land of a thousand lakes. It’s after dinner and slowly our group talk has diminished; quietened. Via yawns and stretches and quiet mutterings, we signal our readiness for sleep, and eventually we amble to our tents. The banter continues briefly, called from tent to tent. But soon we ease closer to sleep, and talk ceases altogether. <o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><i><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Calibri;"><o:p> </o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><i><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Calibri;">On the nearby lake, a similar scenario begins playing out. I’m almost asleep when I hear half a dozen black swans softly honking and tooting to each other in the gloaming. I can no longer see them, but in sharing pre-sleep rituals with these creatures, I am realising afresh my creatureliness. Out here, breathing the same air; dependant on the same water; subject to the same weather, it seems obvious that we – swans and humans both – are small creatures in a vast creation.<o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><i><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; color: #333333; font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt;"><br /></span></i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOis9RY4DJMEKwdYTCGQyHsXJ8HhMMOfGnT6Iai_wBw0OX1-66mQ8P9GnEaPPVDRR3Xa1M9_EYqPW80_BtSElu_UC3VoNUNRZqeDgh7xe3-_7ZIYdQ2WEZVMU3wQSqdxhqvUMum0-tyOo/s2048/IMG_6656.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1365" data-original-width="2048" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOis9RY4DJMEKwdYTCGQyHsXJ8HhMMOfGnT6Iai_wBw0OX1-66mQ8P9GnEaPPVDRR3Xa1M9_EYqPW80_BtSElu_UC3VoNUNRZqeDgh7xe3-_7ZIYdQ2WEZVMU3wQSqdxhqvUMum0-tyOo/w400-h266/IMG_6656.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #274e13;"><i>[We're all small creatures in a vast creation]</i></span></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; text-align: left;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Calibri;">Christian theologian Richard Bauckham, in</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Calibri;"> </span><i style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Calibri;">Bible and Ecology</i><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Calibri;">, laments that humans “</span><i style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Calibri;">somewhere forgot their own creatureliness, their embeddedness within creation, their interdependence with other creatures</i><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Calibri;">”. We forgot what it means to be a </span><i style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Calibri;">creature</i><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Calibri;">.</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Calibri;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">So how can we remind ourselves that we’re creatures? Being creaturely might include observing what’s happening in our own bodies at various stages of the day. How are we responding to exertion, rain, stress, rest? Are we noticing the highs and lows of blood sugar; of mood; of muscle fatigue? How are we dealing with rubs, blisters, scratches and bites. We might also try to engage senses that we tend to neglect in urban life. We could, for instance, expand our sense of touch to include the feel of wind in our hair; mist on our face; sun on our skin; lake water on our feet.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">And since we are social creatures, there are always numerous creaturely things going on with other members of our walking group. Noticing those can enhance our appreciation of other walkers. And reflecting on all of this can be part of our practice of regaining our creatureliness.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><b><span style="font-family: Calibri;">3) Being Still</span></b><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Calibri;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Calibri;">Bushwalking might have the action of walking in its name, but this shouldn’t imply that it’s all about non-stop action. While some walks can become rushed route-marches, I’ve never found these beneficial to my soul. However we can find an inner stillness while walking, particularly if we put in some practice, and take the opportunities that arise. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Calibri;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Calibri;">A number of spiritual traditions have walking forms of meditation. Within Buddhism there’s <i>kinhin</i>, a practice that involves movement and periods of walking between long periods of sitting meditation (<i>zazen</i>). My Buddhist friends Tim and John regularly take part in a kind of longer-form walking meditation practice called a <i>yatra</i>. <i>Yatra</i> is Sanskrit for journey or procession, and in Hinduism this generally means a pilgrimage to holy places. However their experience of <i>yatra </i>is a variation involving a walking journey of some days. </span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Calibri;">John writes “<i>when we began walking we were instructed to keep our attention on our feet through the rhythm of the breath, then to extend it to our legs, the whole body, the vegetation and wildlife, the sky and birds, then back again.</i>”<span style="color: #333333; font-size: 11pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvDRNVKG2Trxs-dsck4Gt1lFBDA_-21eyZ3l4fv9LejWitYoOZhfpxsh4GALgEzNinEiVXGqkSnyDgcT3dEyyab0wbhmmYP-rV0rRqktqZJOeQ5s455SE234xtEsmV7N7_tQq30bMqyfw/s2048/IMG_8212.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 14.666666984558105px; font-style: italic; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1365" data-original-width="2048" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvDRNVKG2Trxs-dsck4Gt1lFBDA_-21eyZ3l4fv9LejWitYoOZhfpxsh4GALgEzNinEiVXGqkSnyDgcT3dEyyab0wbhmmYP-rV0rRqktqZJOeQ5s455SE234xtEsmV7N7_tQq30bMqyfw/w400-h266/IMG_8212.jpg" width="400" /></a></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: center;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #274e13;"><i>[A Moment of Stillness]</i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; color: #333333; font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Calibri;">Christian walking meditation has some similarities. The principally inner mindfulness of sitting meditation, focussing on body and breath, and the presence of God, is expanded to include broader mindfulness of your body’s engagement in the walking process. It also involves mindful observation of the natural world or creation. Your surroundings in the form of light, wind, weather and your fellow creatures all point back to the Creator. These kinds of practices can form part of any bushwalk, especially when you’re apart from your companions.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Calibri;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Calibri;">On an extended bushwalk there’s also the time – even the necessity – for deliberate slowing down and physical stillness. E.H. Burgmann, a bushman turned Anglican bishop mid last century, reflected on his relationship with the bush in his autobiography, “The Education of an Australian”</span><span style="font-family: Calibri;">. </span><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Calibri;">He wrote that<i> “the bush . . . will not speak to a man in a hurry. Its message is worth waiting for. Only the soul that is stilled in its presence can hear the music of its song.</i></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Calibri;">"<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><b><span style="font-family: Calibri;">4) Practicing Gratitude <o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Ancient Latin poet Cicero believed that “<i>gratitude is not only the greatest of virtues, but the parent of all the others.</i>” The same sentiments are found in most spiritual traditions. To Christian reformer </span><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Martin Luther, gratitude was “<i>the basic Christian attitude</i>”, since God is the giver of all good gifts. The Buddha declared gratitude to be one of the highest blessings. Western Buddhist master, Jack Kornfield, writes that being grateful for not only life's blessing but also its suffering is a key component of living a spiritual life. Similarly in the Christian tradition Mother Teresa believed “<i>the best way to show my gratitude to God is to accept everything, even my problems, with joy</i>.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUb0U1py9VbRkD_idKGtJiSXf-c3wkCZ6znj5Ou9y5Xd7n1A9v3zMyrzeK-hAvyp7z_6Wo2Av9mEolvaqbto5jH-iMe3LiPgqn8Z23r_siqn129-xeQy357dzPfywwbKM1Cfu2LLeESzk/s2048/IMG_2245.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 14.666666984558105px; font-style: italic; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1365" data-original-width="2048" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUb0U1py9VbRkD_idKGtJiSXf-c3wkCZ6znj5Ou9y5Xd7n1A9v3zMyrzeK-hAvyp7z_6Wo2Av9mEolvaqbto5jH-iMe3LiPgqn8Z23r_siqn129-xeQy357dzPfywwbKM1Cfu2LLeESzk/w400-h266/IMG_2245.jpg" width="400" /></a></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">It’s one thing to hear or believe that gratitude is a virtue, but another to actually be grateful. While that’s especially true when you strike hard times on a bushwalk, it’s also easy to miss that which should elicit gratitude. That is one reason I am glad to walk in the company of others. Spirituality is not just an individual matter. Those I walk with often point out things I’ve missed, or remind me of things I’ve taken for granted.</span></p><p></p>Nature Scribehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12727570990616097487noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5268236451961589916.post-3343516127512734032020-11-10T15:31:00.003+11:002020-11-10T15:31:58.311+11:00Waldheim: The Next Generation<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: trebuchet; text-align: justify;"><span style="caret-color: rgb(49, 49, 49); color: #313131; font-family: "Trebuchet MS"; text-align: left; word-spacing: 1px;"><b><span style="font-size: x-large;"><i>T</i></span></b><span style="font-size: 1rem;">he enchantments of Waldheim, in Tasmania’s Cradle Mountain National Park, first made our hearts wobble in 1976. Admittedly we were on our honeymoon, when hearts are supposed to beat a little faster and melt a little more readily. But we had never seen a forest as magical as that which surrounds Waldheim. Walking into its soft, green, dappled light, being surrounded by massive, moss and lichen-clad trees, we felt we’d gone through a wardrobe into Narnia.</span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: trebuchet; text-align: justify;"><span style="caret-color: rgb(49, 49, 49); color: #313131; font-family: "Trebuchet MS"; font-size: 1rem; text-align: left; word-spacing: 1px;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: trebuchet; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilcMwpW15KmSKA5jWiLTYvHjQ3uxGve5ToqnS3ILUgNwTrjyC8izlNie0i8vXuTM_H5qHR5bS6UQt7OQGYA6aNdLlzFd6Q_k92W9O4X_TFWD8c0CwAKXX_OksilbX2xEzDskCnKJdjncI/s2048/IMG_5635.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1365" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilcMwpW15KmSKA5jWiLTYvHjQ3uxGve5ToqnS3ILUgNwTrjyC8izlNie0i8vXuTM_H5qHR5bS6UQt7OQGYA6aNdLlzFd6Q_k92W9O4X_TFWD8c0CwAKXX_OksilbX2xEzDskCnKJdjncI/w426-h640/IMG_5635.jpg" width="426" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #38761d;"><i>[In Weindorfers Forest, Waldheim]</i></span></div></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; caret-color: rgb(49, 49, 49); color: #313131; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-size-adjust: auto; word-spacing: 1px;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS"; font-size: 1rem;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS"; font-size: 1rem;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS"; font-size: 1rem; text-align: left;">Subsequent visits with our children, and later with our ageing parents, showed that this was no one-off wobble. There truly is something magical about this “forest home” (as </span><i data-originalcomputedfontsize="16" data-removefontsize="true" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS"; font-size: 1rem; text-align: left;">Waldheim</i><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS"; font-size: 1rem; text-align: left;"> translates). Gustav and Kate Weindorfer built the chalet at the edge of the forest now bearing their name in 1909. And they welcomed visitors here with the words “<i>this is Waldheim where there is no time and nothing matters</i>”. </span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS"; font-size: 1rem;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS"; font-size: 1rem; text-align: left;"><br /></span></span></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; caret-color: rgb(49, 49, 49); color: #313131; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: left; text-size-adjust: auto; word-spacing: 1px;"><span data-originalcomputedfontsize="16" data-removefontsize="true" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS"; font-size: 1rem;">In the wider world much has changed since then, but every time we’ve come back it seems scarcely altered. So we were hoping the enchantment would be alive for our two night stay with three of our granddaughters, and their parents (our son Stuart, and his wife Elly).</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; caret-color: rgb(49, 49, 49); color: #313131; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-size-adjust: auto; word-spacing: 1px;"><span data-originalcomputedfontsize="16" data-removefontsize="true" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS"; font-size: 1rem;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; caret-color: rgb(49, 49, 49); color: #313131; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: center; text-size-adjust: auto; word-spacing: 1px;"><span data-originalcomputedfontsize="16" data-removefontsize="true" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS"; font-size: 1rem;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAGsHA7K1Y2dR86qUXUotAZ7SCsnywNELg7xCTTpI1ikME_hcbx7MHaef5_SQmaptg8-oZcruLACB8QzVSCNEmlsOfXIdlMDmhRE-im3mr1Ozn70-61N_RsJqeo6ubo3UvaOzl_JZcuaw/s1600/Waldheim.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1020" data-original-width="1600" height="255" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAGsHA7K1Y2dR86qUXUotAZ7SCsnywNELg7xCTTpI1ikME_hcbx7MHaef5_SQmaptg8-oZcruLACB8QzVSCNEmlsOfXIdlMDmhRE-im3mr1Ozn70-61N_RsJqeo6ubo3UvaOzl_JZcuaw/w400-h255/Waldheim.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; caret-color: rgb(49, 49, 49); color: #313131; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: center; text-size-adjust: auto; word-spacing: 1px;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; caret-color: rgb(49, 49, 49); color: #313131; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: center; text-size-adjust: auto; word-spacing: 1px;"><i style="color: #38761d; font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium; word-spacing: 0px;">[Waldheim Chalet, near Cradle Mountain]</i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; caret-color: rgb(49, 49, 49); color: #313131; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-size-adjust: auto; word-spacing: 1px;"><span data-originalcomputedfontsize="16" data-removefontsize="true" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS"; font-size: 1rem;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; border-color: rgb(49, 49, 49); caret-color: rgb(49, 49, 49); color: #313131; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-size-adjust: auto; word-spacing: 1px;"><span data-originalcomputedfontsize="16" data-removefontsize="true" style="border-color: rgb(49, 49, 49); font-family: "Trebuchet MS"; font-size: 1rem;">It being Spring in the Tasmanian highlands, the weather was cold and variable. That too seems never to change. Similarly the timeless fun of sharing a tiny cabin with lively children, the five year old twins, Remy and Clover, and their almost four year old sister Isla, reminded us of times here with our own three. There’s only so much “nesting” you can do – sorting out food and drink, deciding who sleeps in which bed, and settling issues like who sits on which chair – before cabin fever strikes.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; border-color: rgb(49, 49, 49); caret-color: rgb(49, 49, 49); color: #313131; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-size-adjust: auto; word-spacing: 1px;"><span data-originalcomputedfontsize="16" data-removefontsize="true" style="border-color: rgb(49, 49, 49); font-family: "Trebuchet MS"; font-size: 1rem;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; border-color: rgb(49, 49, 49); caret-color: rgb(49, 49, 49); font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: center; text-size-adjust: auto; word-spacing: 1px;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; color: #313131; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-C3FlvZ_AeOZRpXpSGWQ-AAMWe851GyVHrL8ME2bYaDJBt7k6iPnHvAEeYm8vXoN7LhsScfBVhuwiSqT1-Hutm9wPkgrnDRedN54Ccc3EmVKMrXIEbI5lCyXa_HXVL52wUMkYgTjl1AE/s2048/Isla+in+my+beanie.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1365" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-C3FlvZ_AeOZRpXpSGWQ-AAMWe851GyVHrL8ME2bYaDJBt7k6iPnHvAEeYm8vXoN7LhsScfBVhuwiSqT1-Hutm9wPkgrnDRedN54Ccc3EmVKMrXIEbI5lCyXa_HXVL52wUMkYgTjl1AE/w426-h640/Isla+in+my+beanie.jpg" width="426" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; color: #313131; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #38761d;"><i>[Isla tries on my beanie]</i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #38761d;"><i><br /></i></span></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; border-color: rgb(49, 49, 49); caret-color: rgb(49, 49, 49); color: #313131; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-size-adjust: auto; word-spacing: 1px;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS"; font-size: 1rem;">I’d spoken with Remy about what she was hoping to see at Cradle Mountain, and wombats were high on her list. So, after a long session of getting the girls and ourselves into wet weather gear, we set off for nearby Ronny Creek. While there are no guarantees with wildlife, and a grandfather should use his words wisely, I think I’d assured the girls that they would see wombats. Thankfully it took only minutes before we’d all seen one, even if it was distant enough to look more like an animate bush.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; border-color: rgb(49, 49, 49); caret-color: rgb(49, 49, 49); color: #313131; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-size-adjust: auto; word-spacing: 1px;"><span style="border-color: rgb(49, 49, 49); font-family: "Trebuchet MS";"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; border-color: rgb(49, 49, 49); caret-color: rgb(49, 49, 49); color: #313131; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-size-adjust: auto; word-spacing: 1px;"><span data-originalcomputedfontsize="16" data-removefontsize="true" style="border-color: rgb(49, 49, 49); font-family: "Trebuchet MS"; font-size: 1rem;">But when we crossed the bridge over Ronny Creek, and wandered a short way up the track towards Wombat Pool, a classic stout wombat, straight from casting central, waddled into view. Thankfully the girls’ immediate shrieks didn’t scare the wombat away. It simply kept grazing along the grass beside the creek, right beside us. And we all kept on gazing, enthralled by this beautiful marsupial.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; border-color: rgb(49, 49, 49); caret-color: rgb(49, 49, 49); color: #313131; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-size-adjust: auto; word-spacing: 1px;"><span style="border-color: rgb(49, 49, 49); font-family: "Trebuchet MS";"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; border-color: rgb(49, 49, 49); caret-color: rgb(49, 49, 49); color: #313131; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: center; text-size-adjust: auto; word-spacing: 1px;"><span style="border-color: rgb(49, 49, 49); font-family: "Trebuchet MS";"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirO-pxrqyrgK6d4U54ROodsD9DB-1nVkR50RrE_Y-UwzN76_Z4Ou9mB2qZBCLijN82Lx7tQI4Nw4j2gmBkIt-UOP0hwpGQTZiHzP4Pe0THWiRjTcX2BzfEib-VW6YF77u6-ZrONAzlWtQ/s2048/Ronny+Ck+Group1.jpg" style="font-family: Times; font-size: medium; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; word-spacing: 0px;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1365" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirO-pxrqyrgK6d4U54ROodsD9DB-1nVkR50RrE_Y-UwzN76_Z4Ou9mB2qZBCLijN82Lx7tQI4Nw4j2gmBkIt-UOP0hwpGQTZiHzP4Pe0THWiRjTcX2BzfEib-VW6YF77u6-ZrONAzlWtQ/w426-h640/Ronny+Ck+Group1.jpg" width="426" /></a></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; border-color: rgb(49, 49, 49); caret-color: rgb(49, 49, 49); color: #313131; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: center; text-size-adjust: auto; word-spacing: 1px;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; border-color: rgb(49, 49, 49); caret-color: rgb(49, 49, 49); font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: center; text-size-adjust: auto; word-spacing: 1px;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; border-color: rgb(49, 49, 49); caret-color: rgb(49, 49, 49); font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: center; text-size-adjust: auto; word-spacing: 1px;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgs1TH8rOrUpvVuUWro8JyKrBxHI4EralLDscUzw8ReLRdb-44hZ6lC9bvhK9tp-eGFvMm5vmkrks0vLdIRAFk6Tb5w1w-z7ciXpDfAh_q55Cp6fSOXtJH401BZlrZsuQmGEmEO_J5IpSY/s2048/Wombat1.jpg" style="font-family: Times; font-size: medium; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; word-spacing: 0px;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1365" data-original-width="2048" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgs1TH8rOrUpvVuUWro8JyKrBxHI4EralLDscUzw8ReLRdb-44hZ6lC9bvhK9tp-eGFvMm5vmkrks0vLdIRAFk6Tb5w1w-z7ciXpDfAh_q55Cp6fSOXtJH401BZlrZsuQmGEmEO_J5IpSY/w400-h266/Wombat1.jpg" width="400" /></a></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; border-color: rgb(49, 49, 49); caret-color: rgb(49, 49, 49); font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: center; text-size-adjust: auto; word-spacing: 1px;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; border-color: rgb(49, 49, 49); caret-color: rgb(49, 49, 49); font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: center; text-size-adjust: auto; word-spacing: 1px;"><span style="color: #38761d;"><i>[Wombat watching beside Ronny Creek]</i></span></p><div><span style="color: #38761d;"><i><br /></i></span></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; border-color: rgb(49, 49, 49); caret-color: rgb(49, 49, 49); font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-size-adjust: auto; word-spacing: 1px;"><span style="color: #313131; font-family: "Trebuchet MS"; font-size: 1rem; text-align: left;">While the showers held off, we wandered a bit further along the creek and up the track, hoping to tire out young legs. We at least managed to tire out some older legs before we headed back to the cabin for dinner and bed. Of course it wasn’t that simple, but after a while the cabin did grow quiet, and we adults started towards bed. That fresh mountain air can take it out of you!</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; border-color: rgb(49, 49, 49); caret-color: rgb(49, 49, 49); font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; text-size-adjust: auto; word-spacing: 1px;"><span style="color: #313131; font-family: "Trebuchet MS"; font-size: 1rem; text-align: left;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; border-color: rgb(49, 49, 49); caret-color: rgb(49, 49, 49); font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: center; text-size-adjust: auto; word-spacing: 1px;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgloG4TxdBWpXukGpWk3ITdLAXTH6sIzyLiv08gFo1nMDY9LbE-3GtSZDiCBfoqH6vO5YpVO_rF1hZHAXYkxS-KK396Jlz0hQLkCzmehMY9OE3YPKhg4MpebxNxhoGKPsU23VZBjdoWBPw/s2048/Girls+at+Ronny+Ck.jpg" style="font-family: Times; font-size: medium; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; word-spacing: 0px;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1900" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgloG4TxdBWpXukGpWk3ITdLAXTH6sIzyLiv08gFo1nMDY9LbE-3GtSZDiCBfoqH6vO5YpVO_rF1hZHAXYkxS-KK396Jlz0hQLkCzmehMY9OE3YPKhg4MpebxNxhoGKPsU23VZBjdoWBPw/w371-h400/Girls+at+Ronny+Ck.jpg" width="371" /></a></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; border-color: rgb(49, 49, 49); caret-color: rgb(49, 49, 49); font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: center; text-size-adjust: auto; word-spacing: 1px;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; border-color: rgb(49, 49, 49); caret-color: rgb(49, 49, 49); font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: center; text-size-adjust: auto; word-spacing: 1px;"><span style="color: #38761d;"><i>[Isla, Remy and Clover also delighted in water play]</i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; border-color: rgb(49, 49, 49); caret-color: rgb(49, 49, 49); color: #313131; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-size-adjust: auto; word-spacing: 1px;"><span data-originalcomputedfontsize="16" data-removefontsize="true" style="border-color: rgb(49, 49, 49); font-family: "Trebuchet MS"; font-size: 1rem;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; border-color: rgb(49, 49, 49); caret-color: rgb(49, 49, 49); color: #313131; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-size-adjust: auto; word-spacing: 1px;"><span data-originalcomputedfontsize="16" data-removefontsize="true" style="border-color: rgb(49, 49, 49); font-family: "Trebuchet MS"; font-size: 1rem;">The forecast for the night and the next day included the words “snow falling above 900 metres”. While Clover had mentioned that she wanted to see snow, I was very reluctant to promise we’d get any here. Of course I’d forgotten that Waldheim sits at nearly 900m. And so, to everyone’s amazement, we woke to light snow! That was both pre- and post-breakfast amusement for the girls, although that weather also meant we weren’t likely to do our planned walk around Dove Lake for a while yet.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; border-color: rgb(49, 49, 49); caret-color: rgb(49, 49, 49); color: #313131; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-size-adjust: auto; word-spacing: 1px;"><span data-originalcomputedfontsize="16" data-removefontsize="true" style="border-color: rgb(49, 49, 49); font-family: "Trebuchet MS"; font-size: 1rem;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; border-color: rgb(49, 49, 49); caret-color: rgb(49, 49, 49); color: #313131; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: center; text-size-adjust: auto; word-spacing: 1px;"><span data-originalcomputedfontsize="16" data-removefontsize="true" style="border-color: rgb(49, 49, 49); font-family: "Trebuchet MS"; font-size: 1rem;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgU_gn-xxwrk4yh06H4QShfRwt6LE_LwRo7sQP7OEfOBf-6FJ8lwQqE-oz-xUoYkP4xZw_Bez6wqikg2rRwX7DLtdRTTo837hL9Kpgw2sB_TrEuU4rYbtcn_FT06FtvCVpxhAAQFSoLApQ/s2048/Girls+in+snow.jpg" style="font-family: Times; font-size: medium; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; word-spacing: 0px;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1365" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgU_gn-xxwrk4yh06H4QShfRwt6LE_LwRo7sQP7OEfOBf-6FJ8lwQqE-oz-xUoYkP4xZw_Bez6wqikg2rRwX7DLtdRTTo837hL9Kpgw2sB_TrEuU4rYbtcn_FT06FtvCVpxhAAQFSoLApQ/w426-h640/Girls+in+snow.jpg" width="426" /></a></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; border-color: rgb(49, 49, 49); caret-color: rgb(49, 49, 49); color: #313131; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: center; text-size-adjust: auto; word-spacing: 1px;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; border-color: rgb(49, 49, 49); caret-color: rgb(49, 49, 49); font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: center; text-size-adjust: auto; word-spacing: 1px;"><span style="color: #38761d;"><i>[Snow! Clover and Remy play at Waldheim.]</i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; border-color: rgb(49, 49, 49); caret-color: rgb(49, 49, 49); color: #313131; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-size-adjust: auto; word-spacing: 1px;"><span style="border-color: rgb(49, 49, 49); font-family: "Trebuchet MS";"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; border-color: rgb(49, 49, 49); caret-color: rgb(49, 49, 49); color: #313131; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-size-adjust: auto; word-spacing: 1px;"><span data-originalcomputedfontsize="16" data-removefontsize="true" style="border-color: rgb(49, 49, 49); font-family: "Trebuchet MS"; font-size: 1rem;">Colouring-in books and pencils came out, morning tea was eaten, toilets were visited, and more food was eaten before the weather started to brighten. We grabbed our chance, packed lunch, and went to the bus stop at Ronny Creek. A short bus ride later and we had started the walk around Dove Lake.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; border-color: rgb(49, 49, 49); caret-color: rgb(49, 49, 49); color: #313131; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-size-adjust: auto; word-spacing: 1px;"><span style="border-color: rgb(49, 49, 49); font-family: "Trebuchet MS";"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; border-color: rgb(49, 49, 49); caret-color: rgb(49, 49, 49); color: #313131; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-size-adjust: auto; word-spacing: 1px;"><span data-originalcomputedfontsize="16" data-removefontsize="true" style="border-color: rgb(49, 49, 49); font-family: "Trebuchet MS"; font-size: 1rem;">Remy, who is very fashion conscious, was not happy with the colour of her new snow suit/waterproofs. Navy blue is NOT a colour she likes, AND it does NOT go with hot pink gumboots! But as it was all that was available in her size, she was stuck with it. And the track soon showed that snow suits of any colour, allied with gumboots, are just perfect for jumping in puddles. Although we struggled to imagine how she – or we – would keep that up for the whole 6+km, it was a good start.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; border-color: rgb(49, 49, 49); caret-color: rgb(49, 49, 49); color: #313131; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-size-adjust: auto; word-spacing: 1px;"><span data-originalcomputedfontsize="16" data-removefontsize="true" style="border-color: rgb(49, 49, 49); font-family: "Trebuchet MS"; font-size: 1rem;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; border-color: rgb(49, 49, 49); caret-color: rgb(49, 49, 49); color: #313131; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: center; text-size-adjust: auto; word-spacing: 1px;"><span data-originalcomputedfontsize="16" data-removefontsize="true" style="border-color: rgb(49, 49, 49); font-family: "Trebuchet MS"; font-size: 1rem;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQ7tCCYNMSpiJM8TDqRpo_00wwRAKbSMSVrzjCDe4nE-EA9PWmRShiCbYvwmREwqLvgrr53WcISZa9qhp6YuZZVYnqSkj3FnuBsVUOna7x8pEBylaWwgxjXVPHqIRAiURjqkZzm9ju8yM/s2048/Remy+in+Puddle.jpg" style="font-family: Times; font-size: medium; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; word-spacing: 0px;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1365" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQ7tCCYNMSpiJM8TDqRpo_00wwRAKbSMSVrzjCDe4nE-EA9PWmRShiCbYvwmREwqLvgrr53WcISZa9qhp6YuZZVYnqSkj3FnuBsVUOna7x8pEBylaWwgxjXVPHqIRAiURjqkZzm9ju8yM/w426-h640/Remy+in+Puddle.jpg" width="426" /></a></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; border-color: rgb(49, 49, 49); caret-color: rgb(49, 49, 49); color: #313131; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: center; text-size-adjust: auto; word-spacing: 1px;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; border-color: rgb(49, 49, 49); caret-color: rgb(49, 49, 49); font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: center; text-size-adjust: auto; word-spacing: 1px;"><span style="color: #38761d;"><i>[Remy delights in puddle-jumping]</i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; border-color: rgb(49, 49, 49); caret-color: rgb(49, 49, 49); font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: center; text-size-adjust: auto; word-spacing: 1px;"><span style="color: #38761d;"><i><br /></i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; border-color: rgb(49, 49, 49); caret-color: rgb(49, 49, 49); font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: center; text-size-adjust: auto; word-spacing: 1px;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjubAhYZ12O8o3wEDDYoO5FAbtAr3KP0kHmfiwMP-vma9RpipPYiFWNMNyp0VDaDo8Sy0-6RrhMCuCFYstVIPEBIcAZQbh5HWJ9qW8mTnXy01BhiRhSn1TIHgFRTKPA6AHLiANmLDYmdp0/s2048/Girls+in+snow+1.jpg" style="font-family: Times; font-size: medium; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; word-spacing: 0px;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1365" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjubAhYZ12O8o3wEDDYoO5FAbtAr3KP0kHmfiwMP-vma9RpipPYiFWNMNyp0VDaDo8Sy0-6RrhMCuCFYstVIPEBIcAZQbh5HWJ9qW8mTnXy01BhiRhSn1TIHgFRTKPA6AHLiANmLDYmdp0/w426-h640/Girls+in+snow+1.jpg" width="426" /></a></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; border-color: rgb(49, 49, 49); caret-color: rgb(49, 49, 49); font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: center; text-size-adjust: auto; word-spacing: 1px;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; border-color: rgb(49, 49, 49); caret-color: rgb(49, 49, 49); font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: center; text-size-adjust: auto; word-spacing: 1px;"><span style="color: #38761d;"><i>[Stuart helps Isla along the track]</i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; border-color: rgb(49, 49, 49); caret-color: rgb(49, 49, 49); color: #313131; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-size-adjust: auto; word-spacing: 1px;"><span style="border-color: rgb(49, 49, 49); font-family: "Trebuchet MS";"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; border-color: rgb(49, 49, 49); caret-color: rgb(49, 49, 49); color: #313131; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-size-adjust: auto; word-spacing: 1px;"><span data-originalcomputedfontsize="16" data-removefontsize="true" style="border-color: rgb(49, 49, 49); font-family: "Trebuchet MS"; font-size: 1rem;">Meanwhile Clover and Isla were happy holding hands as much as hopping into puddles. The walk is so varied and interesting, even for littl’uns, that we managed to get nearly half way ‘round before stopping for lunch. After lunch we had to walk on through sleet for a while, but a few “wait till you see” hints, and some food bribes, got us all to Ballroom Forest. Another enchanted place, this kept them happy and amused for a while, as did the sight of their grandparents dancing in the “ballroom”.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; border-color: rgb(49, 49, 49); caret-color: rgb(49, 49, 49); color: #313131; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-size-adjust: auto; word-spacing: 1px;"><span data-originalcomputedfontsize="16" data-removefontsize="true" style="border-color: rgb(49, 49, 49); font-family: "Trebuchet MS"; font-size: 1rem;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; border-color: rgb(49, 49, 49); caret-color: rgb(49, 49, 49); color: #313131; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: center; text-size-adjust: auto; word-spacing: 1px;"><span data-originalcomputedfontsize="16" data-removefontsize="true" style="border-color: rgb(49, 49, 49); font-family: "Trebuchet MS"; font-size: 1rem;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcHGy8q6D58mHjxprKiZ6_ij3CIi578X_qF9j5HWBBVPa82XEo0EU3o7XFZYk6AVqVGv_Aawi3QmWOYsGS_O9GkQq7Nyoj00jYGbWEbdtVo9EiojPsXbXLBIgFIr0UCOvlnZWTOj28HPs/s2048/Ballroom+Forest.jpg" style="font-family: Times; font-size: medium; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; word-spacing: 0px;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1365" data-original-width="2048" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcHGy8q6D58mHjxprKiZ6_ij3CIi578X_qF9j5HWBBVPa82XEo0EU3o7XFZYk6AVqVGv_Aawi3QmWOYsGS_O9GkQq7Nyoj00jYGbWEbdtVo9EiojPsXbXLBIgFIr0UCOvlnZWTOj28HPs/w400-h266/Ballroom+Forest.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; border-color: rgb(49, 49, 49); caret-color: rgb(49, 49, 49); color: #313131; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: center; text-size-adjust: auto; word-spacing: 1px;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; border-color: rgb(49, 49, 49); caret-color: rgb(49, 49, 49); color: #313131; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: center; text-size-adjust: auto; word-spacing: 1px;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSF01g2mBnQ_Qtj-lR6KwxItk4YH2Csn5eF6XjA_JVQmfF8Yrx39g0GrmueXqVFiHK_yXhVOqnuFjm8J5kHg03kEJHcggbv4ZDQZ0feIX37xvSXVDCvWWmCwk8AWi17KQjTBjJ-uxEcC8/s2048/Remy+in+Creek.jpg" style="font-family: Times; font-size: medium; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; word-spacing: 0px;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1365" data-original-width="2048" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSF01g2mBnQ_Qtj-lR6KwxItk4YH2Csn5eF6XjA_JVQmfF8Yrx39g0GrmueXqVFiHK_yXhVOqnuFjm8J5kHg03kEJHcggbv4ZDQZ0feIX37xvSXVDCvWWmCwk8AWi17KQjTBjJ-uxEcC8/w400-h266/Remy+in+Creek.jpg" width="400" /></a></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; border-color: rgb(49, 49, 49); caret-color: rgb(49, 49, 49); color: #313131; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: center; text-size-adjust: auto; word-spacing: 1px;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; border-color: rgb(49, 49, 49); caret-color: rgb(49, 49, 49); font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: center; text-size-adjust: auto; word-spacing: 1px;"><span style="color: #38761d;"><i>[Scenes from Ballroom Forest]</i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; border-color: rgb(49, 49, 49); caret-color: rgb(49, 49, 49); color: #313131; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-size-adjust: auto; word-spacing: 1px;"><span data-originalcomputedfontsize="16" data-removefontsize="true" style="border-color: rgb(49, 49, 49); font-family: "Trebuchet MS"; font-size: 1rem;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; caret-color: rgb(49, 49, 49); color: #313131; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-size-adjust: auto; word-spacing: 1px;"><span data-originalcomputedfontsize="16" data-removefontsize="true" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS"; font-size: 1rem;">After this, (nearly 4 year old) Isla began to flag, and a certain amount of parental carrying – especially by Elly – was eventually needed to get her to the track’s end. Even Remy had a little help, from Stuart this time, although Clover just kept walking. She was very much in her happy place, asking about the birds, the plants, the mosses, the lichens, and pretty much everything that we were seeing.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; caret-color: rgb(49, 49, 49); color: #313131; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-size-adjust: auto; word-spacing: 1px;"><span data-originalcomputedfontsize="16" data-removefontsize="true" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS"; font-size: 1rem;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; caret-color: rgb(49, 49, 49); color: #313131; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: center; text-size-adjust: auto; word-spacing: 1px;"><span data-originalcomputedfontsize="16" data-removefontsize="true" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS"; font-size: 1rem;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNuiqbp29og4uEAmBG8ocUyI29nSIXSuOO5EedI6rrCYmyn3gNREUC8EbTFpc8VkapDO_WMOyiTZUyZGohhsjK3x0l38wLrk-cTYzix1PyHLmppSNC98F8DHuGo4Xmmas4hY6KQLNjMrg/s2048/Clover+Happy.jpg" style="font-family: Times; font-size: medium; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; word-spacing: 0px;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1365" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNuiqbp29og4uEAmBG8ocUyI29nSIXSuOO5EedI6rrCYmyn3gNREUC8EbTFpc8VkapDO_WMOyiTZUyZGohhsjK3x0l38wLrk-cTYzix1PyHLmppSNC98F8DHuGo4Xmmas4hY6KQLNjMrg/w426-h640/Clover+Happy.jpg" width="426" /></a></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; caret-color: rgb(49, 49, 49); color: #313131; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: center; text-size-adjust: auto; word-spacing: 1px;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; caret-color: rgb(49, 49, 49); font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: center; text-size-adjust: auto; word-spacing: 1px;"><span style="color: #38761d;"><i>[Clover smiles for the camera]</i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; caret-color: rgb(49, 49, 49); font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: center; text-size-adjust: auto; word-spacing: 1px;"><span style="color: #38761d;"><i><br /></i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; caret-color: rgb(49, 49, 49); font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-align: center; text-size-adjust: auto; word-spacing: 1px;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0IiplWon7o_dEVaFPcCvxezMNsy2ioohuy-I7qXMGLvg6dN1oCCCl8sOyQtZtxfTq_mSGpdXbTaYT8z39yU4AXFm52xvCxaeaPX9Xr-GLOmPzp5gtHaTpe6IwJkW6io_reKvVMjcJUug/s2048/At+the+Boatshed.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1365" data-original-width="2048" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0IiplWon7o_dEVaFPcCvxezMNsy2ioohuy-I7qXMGLvg6dN1oCCCl8sOyQtZtxfTq_mSGpdXbTaYT8z39yU4AXFm52xvCxaeaPX9Xr-GLOmPzp5gtHaTpe6IwJkW6io_reKvVMjcJUug/w400-h266/At+the+Boatshed.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #38761d;"><i>[Lynne with the twins at the Dove Lake boat shed]</i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #38761d;"><i><br /></i></span></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; caret-color: rgb(49, 49, 49); color: #313131; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; text-size-adjust: auto; word-spacing: 1px;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS"; font-size: 1rem;">And so the 4</span><sup data-originalcomputedfontsize="13.333333015441895" data-removefontsize="true" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS"; font-size: 0.833333rem;">th</sup><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS"; font-size: 1rem;"> generation of our family had shared some of the magic of Waldheim and Cradle Mountain. We were so proud of the girls for completing the walk, and for really engaging in all that was going on around them. As I watched them finish the walk, my grandfather heart wobbled afresh. Might they come to value this wondrous place – and eventually other wild places – as much as we do? Certainly an apprenticeship had begun.</span></p></div></span></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3rv_rud26L0LP7_SQQn7-_J_xddEBs5nB-O1eT24VFULhYRi4AHMB9eyON4iemggGrI5RbhH3fHswtT-V7zcb09MKa0qNhZMEGS13bP-55CsefF3MKHMP7uZ340MM9PKx76EG4x1-JDk/s2048/Happy+Drawing.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1343" data-original-width="2048" height="263" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3rv_rud26L0LP7_SQQn7-_J_xddEBs5nB-O1eT24VFULhYRi4AHMB9eyON4iemggGrI5RbhH3fHswtT-V7zcb09MKa0qNhZMEGS13bP-55CsefF3MKHMP7uZ340MM9PKx76EG4x1-JDk/w400-h263/Happy+Drawing.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #38761d;"><i>[Remy's happy drawing from Waldheim]</i></span></div><p></p>Nature Scribehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12727570990616097487noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5268236451961589916.post-62281980760774045662020-05-07T17:58:00.000+10:002020-05-07T17:58:12.195+10:00A Long-Awaited Reunion: Part 4<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: 11pt;">Plans change, even long-settled ones. Originally we were to walk out together on day 4. Then, once we’d reached the cars, Jim, Lynne, Brita and I would farewell the four who were going home early, and we’d go on to Blue Peaks. That required driving around to Lake Mackenzie, re-packing, and getting walking again in the late afternoon for the 2-3 hour walk up to Blue Peaks.</span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /><span style="color: #38761d; font-size: small;"><i>[The track between Pelion and our cars]</i></span> </td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: 11pt;">That all sounded good on paper, and looked very do-able on the map. But there were two flies in the ointment. Firstly the forecast for the days ahead included quite a bit of rain. Secondly Lynne’s knee/hamstring issue was still of concern. Jim and I had independently been pondering the dilemma: how could we help Brita to make the most of her limited time in Tasmania, while not further damaging Lynne’s knee? Amazingly we had come up with the same possible solution. Merran and Tim D had some extra accommodation, a cottage next to their house in Sheffield, and we hoped we might prevail upon them to use it for two nights. We’d be able to visit Cradle Mountain on the day in between.</span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /><span style="color: #38761d; font-size: small;"><i>[An unidentified wildflower brightened up the walk out]</i></span> </td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: 11pt;">Jim and I laughed when we finally had a quiet little t</span><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: 11pt;">ê</span><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: 11pt;">te-</span><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: 11pt;">à</span><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: 11pt;">-t</span><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: 11pt;">ê</span><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: 11pt;">te about the issue, and discovered we’d had the same idea. (I guess that happens when you’ve been friends for nearly 40 years.) We put it to Tim D and Merran, and they were more than happy for us to use the cottage. We checked it with Lynne and Brita, who were happy to go along with the new plan. Problem solved, the only thorny issue was how to nurse Lynne through the potentially arduous walk out to the car. To allow the maximum time for her to walk as slowly as she needed, we were all up very early. And Lynne left before the rest of us, as she didn’t want to slow anyone down.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">That seemed wise to me, although I expected I’d catch her within the hour. Instead the kilometres went by: buttongrass became forest; forest gave way to heathland. We toiled through rocky sections, then walked some more through scrubby forest. We were now walking in gender groups, and we boys were having a fascinating theological discussion, as you do between three Christians and a Buddhist. It didn’t slow us down at all, but however fast we walked, there was no sign of Lynne.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">To say we didn’t see her again until the cars would be a slight exaggeration. But we only caught up with her when she stopped for a scroggin break, and to wait for the rest of us. We weren’t walking slowly. Lynne was simply walking like a new person: fluently, and without knee pain.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKnz4eODbeFBXFHE4IBxkBRkC2VEOuroSX9sszS9QWso7jjjhJtAY9G9VwYWf1gMoNF5mFKv5u-H86IUcVWv2hcAYMjn8R5T7Hpwf_z_9ELiKjstVrN_7Z9PjyYCdpSyYk5B5KLACmz8k/s1600/Rough+Track.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="font-size: medium; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKnz4eODbeFBXFHE4IBxkBRkC2VEOuroSX9sszS9QWso7jjjhJtAY9G9VwYWf1gMoNF5mFKv5u-H86IUcVWv2hcAYMjn8R5T7Hpwf_z_9ELiKjstVrN_7Z9PjyYCdpSyYk5B5KLACmz8k/s400/Rough+Track.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /><span style="color: #38761d; font-size: small;"><i>[The track was rough and cryptic in a few places]</i></span> </td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: 11pt;">Still, it was a long and tiring walk out. On the way in to Pelion we’d taken more than 6 hours, and walking out still took us well over 4 hours. Yet there was elation at getting back to the cars before lunchtime. I gave Lynne a congratulatory hug, and we both thanked Brita for her great work on Lynne’s hamstring. She just deflected the thanks, and said it was all to do with Lynne’s “super tough body”. Lynne looked both surprised and delighted with the compliment.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Once we’d stowed our gear back in the cars, the prospect of getting out to a hot lunch before too long was uppermost in our minds. Apart from anything else, we had to farewell Libby and TimO, who were leaving us once we’d had that café lunch. We were aiming for Mole Creek pub, but decided to stop and try Earthwater Café, a few km short of Mole Creek. Changing plans seemed to be going well for us today: it proved a fabulous find. We sat outside, partly so other diners didn’t have to share our ripe bushwalking odour. Once we’d pulled a couple of tables together beneath some beautiful trees, we settled down to the kind of meal that’s especially welcome after time in the bush.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0gyrEc4OdLKxH9N3_6g918gm8ky8MPInt9qWeZfHwXNCC_VtWM23j8f1lrDXDzYztBYckcDUUhrF-Z3BG32oBwPwzHVN8BJYVJn4g0OFdu2NFhTot4GfsEur3pjDk_WnZFZfajfIPdqI/s1600/Earthwater+Lunch.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="font-size: medium; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0gyrEc4OdLKxH9N3_6g918gm8ky8MPInt9qWeZfHwXNCC_VtWM23j8f1lrDXDzYztBYckcDUUhrF-Z3BG32oBwPwzHVN8BJYVJn4g0OFdu2NFhTot4GfsEur3pjDk_WnZFZfajfIPdqI/s400/Earthwater+Lunch.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /><span style="color: #38761d; font-size: small;"><i>[Our lunch stop at Earthwater Cafe]</i></span> </td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: 11pt;">Sooner than we hoped, but later than they needed to, TimO and Libby departed for the south. The remaining six of us were going to Sheffield, and were very thankful that we weren’t having to hoist packs and walk again that day. We were even more thankful we’d have actual beds, with real mattresses, for the next few nights. Call us soft, we don’t care!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">There was one other major item on Brita’s “must see” list. Despite having seen wallabies, pademelons, eagles, cockatoos and dozens of other creatures that aren’t to be found in Austria – and most of New Zealand – we had not been able to find a wombat. That gave us a focus for our day at Cradle Mountain. But that was tomorrow, tonight we needed to find food, while leaving Tim and Merran to settle in and get ready for work tomorrow. We took a dining short-cut, deciding to eat what we still had in our packs. Yes, we had catered for more nights out, but the prospect of more dehydrated food wasn’t hugely enticing. A visit to the pub for a pre-dinner drink took the edge off our disappointment, and a little wine with dinner helped wash it down happily.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZwvZoJP4GDwcdCg9-l70DWJQeSgCd3hn653h-4bgmi5Fo9zEvD6uaHIgWmb2Z62D2IROKUD9wuESYgeOTZKt8FpbVG3LPI-n4v7HW5BDq5AeSRqxWTlbNrCXWiHw_J0u5I_p46YGhTpU/s1600/Cradle+Reflected.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="font-size: medium; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1067" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZwvZoJP4GDwcdCg9-l70DWJQeSgCd3hn653h-4bgmi5Fo9zEvD6uaHIgWmb2Z62D2IROKUD9wuESYgeOTZKt8FpbVG3LPI-n4v7HW5BDq5AeSRqxWTlbNrCXWiHw_J0u5I_p46YGhTpU/s640/Cradle+Reflected.jpg" width="426" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /><span style="color: #38761d; font-size: small;"><i>[Cradle Mountain reflected in Dove Lake]</i></span> </td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: 11pt;">The forecast for our Cradle Mountain day was not great, although the amount of rain predicted seemed to diminish by the hour (which was how often we checked it). By the time we left Sheffield the showers had stopped. And when we got to the new visitor centre at Cradle Valley, the cloud had lifted off Cradle itself. The plan to walk the Dove Lake Loop Track wasn’t looking so daft after all. Dove Lake itself was very busy, as this honey-pot has been for many years now. But once we walked beyond Glacier Rock, just a few hundred metres from the carpark, the foot traffic dropped significantly. As we ambled closer to Cradle, we showed Brita some more of the kind of rainforest she had come to love in both Tasmania and New Zealand. </span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxGwAfFivjWa07DjDXVOE5xlICrqTrO9EzMmCUpiQev6LkgVzJM2dLut2qNLZDTDvgoUu6aopXzsoEMQugfiEmAohAtbkZxAEw6MqfaucMg4MECmq6n8s_GUo5kHJFirskGGSBl-6ZN60/s1600/Loop+rainforest.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxGwAfFivjWa07DjDXVOE5xlICrqTrO9EzMmCUpiQev6LkgVzJM2dLut2qNLZDTDvgoUu6aopXzsoEMQugfiEmAohAtbkZxAEw6MqfaucMg4MECmq6n8s_GUo5kHJFirskGGSBl-6ZN60/s400/Loop+rainforest.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /><span style="color: #38761d; font-size: small;"><i>[Rainforest on the Dove Lake Loop Track]</i></span> </td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: 11pt;">We talked about the common origins of those forests in ancient Gondwana. This kinship even goes down to the kinds of fungi found in both forests. We pointed out some myrtle orange fungi (</span><i style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: 11pt;">Cyttaria gunnii</i><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: 11pt;">), which are very closely related to </span><i style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: 11pt;">Cyttaria</i><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: 11pt;"> species found on the beech trees of both New Zealand and Patagonia, even down to their resemblance to golf balls.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXVguLWVzVhqYedKhmVUBkwWObW-_G4w6KMubsqPh_qwQcX1CEXwbesOjsqCi_6bLdc9gqLFNcmQvxnWxZGitqOQSuJ5bEQWxLL34EO08YQ9CRwYrg05j3MKC3RW4P71L2M8jVmgbvAqc/s1600/Myrtle+Orange.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="font-size: medium; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1600" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXVguLWVzVhqYedKhmVUBkwWObW-_G4w6KMubsqPh_qwQcX1CEXwbesOjsqCi_6bLdc9gqLFNcmQvxnWxZGitqOQSuJ5bEQWxLL34EO08YQ9CRwYrg05j3MKC3RW4P71L2M8jVmgbvAqc/s400/Myrtle+Orange.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /><span style="color: #38761d; font-size: small;"><i>[Myrtle orange fungi in myrtle beech trees]</i></span> </td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: 11pt;">After dipping beneath Cradle itself, the track took us around to yet more rainforest, the wonderful Ballroom Forest. But there was an elephant in the ballroom. Or more correctly, a large, rotund, furry marsupial (and no, I’m not referring to Jim) was missing from the ballroom. We weren’t likely to see wombats here, so we walked quite quickly back to Dove Lake. The one sure-fire place to see wombats in the wild was Ronny Creek, so we caught a shuttle bus from Dove Lake and got off at Ronny Creek.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjneEAfhVwKoYSYl-n1hA6DKb3xlXNkr7J7Cf48WUvIF190Gbyz125qIiT2St0fFti1MoCmySMogLAWfM9Lq-N727pdo6ILLxF2m-sJ414s3Xw4gin_Jn5JlDgDssZ-oRHgxEwZcmWYB9g/s1600/Jim+in+Ballroom.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="font-size: medium; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1067" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjneEAfhVwKoYSYl-n1hA6DKb3xlXNkr7J7Cf48WUvIF190Gbyz125qIiT2St0fFti1MoCmySMogLAWfM9Lq-N727pdo6ILLxF2m-sJ414s3Xw4gin_Jn5JlDgDssZ-oRHgxEwZcmWYB9g/s640/Jim+in+Ballroom.jpg" width="426" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /><span style="color: #38761d; font-size: small;"><i>[Jim in Ballroom Forest]</i></span> </td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: 11pt;">Within a few minutes we were meeting other walkers coming towards us with smiles on their faces. Yes, there were wombats here! I’d like to say we stopped, snapped a few quick photos, and quickly turned for home, where we had a date to eat home-made pizza with Merran and Tim. But no, this was Brita’s new happy place. </span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHxH2lRCsMsnE7polp-RuhVTa7IJZYAhFb06r96ySd5VOiR5aFeVhFOMlw7qyXtfzQwz5jU6ryYZX8-1IsQMc3QGpqnCXMCu9hHdL7oC-lQrZlPxqKC7T4j2j4tZ2rCCjI48KPhyWfeeU/s1600/Brita%252BWombat.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="font-size: medium; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1600" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHxH2lRCsMsnE7polp-RuhVTa7IJZYAhFb06r96ySd5VOiR5aFeVhFOMlw7qyXtfzQwz5jU6ryYZX8-1IsQMc3QGpqnCXMCu9hHdL7oC-lQrZlPxqKC7T4j2j4tZ2rCCjI48KPhyWfeeU/s400/Brita%252BWombat.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /><span style="color: #38761d; font-size: small;"><i>[Brita's happy place: watching wombats near Ronny Creek] </i></span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: 11pt;">She took a hundred photos of distant wombats. Then a couple of them started wandering down towards the track. After she took another hundred closer photos, and became a little annoyed with the noisy, impatient and pushy behaviour of some other observers, we thought Brita was finished. </span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /><span style="color: #38761d; font-size: small;"><i>[Wombat approaching!]</i></span> </td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: 11pt;">But then one wombat climbed onto, and over, the boardwalk, close enough for Brita to touch it (which she knew not to). She had an extended period of wombat bliss – while we basked in its vicarious glow – before we signalled it was time to head back to the shuttle bus stop. Brita belatedly joined us – after a deal of waving and calling – only moments before the bus pulled out. But somehow not even that was going to stop her smile!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: 11pt;">Back in Sheffield, we hunted for pizza toppings, the deal being that Tim would make the bases, and we would supply, and put on, the toppings. We also wanted to search out some little thank-yous for our Sheffield hosts. That done, we went “home” again, and freshened up for dinner. </span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /><span style="color: #38761d; font-size: small;"><i>[Master chef Tim. Who wants some pizza?]</i></span> </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAaC6_UZf_0WxpvYxURLXVnxg4lCh2-tN-5m6NA5SQ9TDZ9PL9UqR4-9_RV9XLdWPJ0KDokUx6Y4gkIu7bw3RtFbVF2BHc5XvdoOOshQ-TG2jq6Fb4tFlYkBx6l-9jBHwXbzFOgbdWAA8/s1600/pizza.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="font-size: medium; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAaC6_UZf_0WxpvYxURLXVnxg4lCh2-tN-5m6NA5SQ9TDZ9PL9UqR4-9_RV9XLdWPJ0KDokUx6Y4gkIu7bw3RtFbVF2BHc5XvdoOOshQ-TG2jq6Fb4tFlYkBx6l-9jBHwXbzFOgbdWAA8/s400/pizza.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /><span style="color: #38761d; font-size: small;"><i>[Not your typical bushwalking food. Thanks Tim!]</i></span> </td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: 11pt;">Tim excelled himself, as usual, with three courses of pizza: entrée (pizza bianca); main course (many and varied) and dessert pizzas. We supplied the wine, and sat back to watch the setting sun painting the clouds around Mount Roland. It was a magical end to a very special few days together. We met no resistance from Brita when we suggested we must do it all again. But perhaps we might not wait eleven years this time!</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzCZMT4rGw_9TdSXc1UNLXoNEmYmkKVEOWcQnMeo8VQIHme72nqeiKqbzBqL0EHoV-dmJbz-Ez-vld3QC3kKuhk6adrPkoClYvPxd6iEDR5HT0pzq-qXuV0EWNeE13UJHBsM1q-azNV1Q/s1600/sunset.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="font-size: medium; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzCZMT4rGw_9TdSXc1UNLXoNEmYmkKVEOWcQnMeo8VQIHme72nqeiKqbzBqL0EHoV-dmJbz-Ez-vld3QC3kKuhk6adrPkoClYvPxd6iEDR5HT0pzq-qXuV0EWNeE13UJHBsM1q-azNV1Q/s400/sunset.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /><span style="color: #38761d; font-size: small;"><i>[... as the sun sinks slowly over Mt Roland.]</i></span> </td></tr>
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Nature Scribehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12727570990616097487noreply@blogger.com0