Clouds From Both Sides: Part 2

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

 

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

Buttongrass, cloud and south-west mountains

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

 

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

Campsite view of Lake Judd and the Eliza Plateau

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

Above the cloud on Schnells Ridge

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

Larry and Libby atop a lateral moraine

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

On Schnells Ridge, looking towards Lake Judd and Eliza Plateau

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

At our lunch-stop above Moraine Tarn

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

 

A surprise visitor at lunchtime

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

 

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

Descending towards the Anne River and Lake Judd

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

Firefighting helicopter bucketing water, Lake Judd

 

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

 

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

The Not-So-Plain Plains: Part 3

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

[Resting, but not asleep]

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

 

[Merran, Tim and Libby being interesting!]

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

[Green - and brown - peace inside our forest]

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

[Pines on one side, eucalypts on the other]

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

[Contorted pencil pine beside a tarn]

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

 

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

 

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

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

[Overland Track peaks from the edge of February Plains]

[Red seed heads of mountain rocket]

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

 

[Time to head for our forest home!]

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

 

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

Central Plateau Variations: Part 3

[Who else has walked here?]

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?

[A place of contentment]

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 “wild cattle was seen grazing … and several young calves appeared among them”. 

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.

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.

[An old sketch map by Keith Lancaster, showing Ritters Track]

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.

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.

[Tim contemplates the route]

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. 

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. 

[Surely a Ritters Track cairn?]

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.

[Tim and Larry spy out the next cairn]

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.

[A clear view towards the Walls of Jerusalem]

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.

[Libby inspects another genuine Ritter cairn]

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. 

[Tim and Merran at our lunch stop]

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.

[Two solar collectors hard at work]

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.

[A calm Pencil Pine Tarn]

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. 

It was in a time of pandemic, nearly 400 years ago, that poet John Donne reflected so powerfully on this. 

No man is an island, 

entire of itself, 

every man is a piece of the continent, 

a part of the main; … 

any man's death diminishes me, 

because I am involved in mankind,  

And therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; 

It tolls for thee. 

Freycinet Experiences 3: The Path Less Trodden

[Treading lightly on the Friendly Beaches] 

In my family we call it “explorer blood”. It’s the urge to see new places; to choose different routes; to go that little bit further to see what’s over that hill. I have it, my father had it, and his father had it before him. But I didn’t expect it to come into play here, on the Freycinet Peninsula, which feels known to me, tamed even.

Yet as we walk from White Water Wall towards Bluestone Bay, I start to get that old tingling in the blood. It rises as Jodi tells us we’ll be taking a route that is not well known; not often walked. It’s certainly new to me.

We carefully scrub our boots at the bay. We don’t want to be responsible for introducing Phytophthora root rot here. That fungal infection has already killed many susceptible plants in other parts of the national park, and we don’t want to carry it in on any infected mud on our boots.

[Boot scrubbing at Bluestone Bay] 

Overnight it rained, pattering on the roof of our accommodation, lulling us to sleep after our long day of walking. Today it’s cool and windy, and there are still showers about. At the bay we watch a pair of sea kayakers launch into the water. We hope they hug close to the steep cliff-bound shore in these blustery conditions.

As we climb through the bush I imagine how Aboriginal people would have used their rafts along this coast over thousands of years, hunting the seals and sea birds that are still prolific here. We pass a midden which holds clues to other parts of their diet; especially shellfish and marsupials.

[A distant sea kayak near Bluestone Bay ... click image to enlarge]

We’re soon high above the rocky coastline, and looking down on the kayaks, now just small dashes on the corrugated dapple of the sea. It’s exhilarating to be here, like seeing an old friend doing new things in a new context.

[Looking back towards Cape Tourville] 

Most of us take a break at a high point with a view back towards Cape Tourville, but Jodi pushes on to some place she and Eric refer to as “the yellow rock café”. When we finally catch her up we get the joke. Jodi has hooked up a large yellow tarp over an improvised table. An amazing lunch spread covers the “table”, actually a piece of duckboard track. 

[Jodi and Eric at the Yellow Rock Cafe] 

After lunch we start the slow descent towards Freshwater Lagoon, at the southernmost end of the Friendly Beaches. There are old disused tin mines and random exploration digs in the area. Most are now just revegetated holes in the bush, which is thicker here in the sheltered low hills.

[On the descent to Freshwater Lagoon] 

We eventually get back to well trodden paths in the form of an old exploration track. This soon leads us to the coast at Freshwater Lagoon. On the beach we see our first other people of the afternoon: a family playing a game of beach cricket. As though to join in this pretence of summer, Eric and a couple of others go in for a swim. The day is now calm, and the low sun glitters off the ocean as we watch both swimmers and cricketers.

[A chilly dip at the southern end of the Friendly Beaches] 

We still have 3 or 4 km to walk up the beach and back to the Friendly Beaches Lodge, but in these conditions that will hardly be a trial. It’s time for boots off and trousers rolled. That makes me think of T.S. Eliot’s “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock”.

I grow old ... I grow old ...

I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

Shall I part my hair behind?   Do I dare to eat a peach?

I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.

I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

[Trousers rolled ... or shorts on for a walk up the Friendlies]  

But my own trousers are neither white nor flannel, and today I feel far less maudlin about ageing than Eliot. If there are mermaids singing today they are just the crested terns which pose and chatter and wheel as we stroll up the beach.

[Crested terns on the Friendly Beaches] 

From City to Summit 5: Generations

While sitting atop Sphinx Rock I’m thinking about generations. Our family has been visiting this lookout rock for more than thirty years, but how many generations of Hobartians have done the same before us? And how many generations of the Mouheneener Aboriginal band came to this perfect outlook and its “downstairs” shelters? More than a thousand?

[Emily looks back on Hobart from the Zig Zag Track]

Our own three generations delight in the views and the lunch provided by Lynne. But my mission to get to the top in good time keeps popping into my mind, as well as the question of who‘s going to join me for the final stage. As I bite into my apple, I learn that it’s all sorted. Our eldest granddaughter, 9 year old Emily, is set to accompany me to the top.

The two of us set off, Emily bounding ahead, bursting to climb her first mountain. At a similar age I thought to do the same, also after a family picnic. I had crossed the Hawkesbury River, west of Sydney, clambered up the far bank, and begun climbing the Blue Mountains. Or so I thought, until I was dragged back after a sister informed on me.

For Emily it is actually happening. We follow the Sawmill Track steeply up through rocky scree, cross the Pinnacle Road, then angle back towards the aptly named Organ Pipes. Emily asks if the dolerite pillars are the actual top. I tell her we have to take the Zig Zag Track around the Organ Pipes before we get to the summit. She just smiles and skips ahead to find herself a walking stick.

[Looking down on the city from the Organ Pipes Track] 

My thoughts turn to gloomier matters: namely plans for a cable car that would slice through the sky above here. I am revolted by the idea; by the thought that this mountain, this sky, this view, could be visually “mined” by a company for their profit. And for the convenience and momentary thrill of some.

I have travelled on cable cars in the European Alps. History, geography, snow and a huge population warrant their use there. None of those factors pertains here. Tasmania is not Europe, and can’t try to be. Our strength is wildness, not amusement rides. But besides the aesthetic and environmental objections, I also doubt that an economic case could be made for this venture. I fear seeing State government money – our money – being endlessly siphoned off to rescue a failed venture. Tasmanian history is littered with such stories.

[The view south over Storm Bay and the Channel from the Zig Zag] 

Emily and I walk on beneath what could become invaded space, violated silence. We are making statements with our feet. It’s the very day thousands are doing the same in support of the threatened World Heritage forests of the Florentine. We do what we can, and we hope.

At around 900m the Sawmill Track hits the Organ Pipes Track, and we jag left. I’ve been telling Emily about the tree line, and she notices that the trees are starting to get shorter. She’s also curious about the source of the Hobart Rivulet. As we turn onto the Zig Zag Track, each fresh flow of water prompts her to wonder whether the Rivulet might start here.

["Is this the source of the Hobart Rivulet?"] 

We catch up with a group of adults who are also heading for the summit. They are very impressed with Emily’s efforts. She smiles shyly, but I think she’s pleased. If she needed any extra encouragement, the timing is good. The track is now into its steepest section, drawing adjacent to the southern flanks of the Organ Pipes. “That’s why it has to zig zag” I tell her.

More interesting to her are the small patches of snow we start to find. Briefly Emily forgets all about the mountain. She whips off her gloves, plunges her hands into the snow, flings snow balls around, even fashions a miniature snow man.  Eventually, and for the first time on the walk, I have to urge her to keep moving. Clouds are threatening to obscure our summit views.

[Getting close to the top of kunanyi/Mt Wellington] 

Then we turn a corner and the track becomes a long, broad hump stretching towards the highest point. In concentrating on how Emily was faring I’ve almost forgotten that this my destination: the 1271m summit of kunanyi/Mt Wellington. All that remains is to climb the humble pile of boulders that surrounds the high point and its trig station, and join hands in triumph. A German tourist kindly captures the moment for us on my camera.

[We made it! Emily joins me on the summit]

Then it’s back to the car, which has been left for us in the nearby car park. If I’m inclined to think this a little anti-climactic, Emily snaps me out of it by putting the traditional pile of snow on the bonnet of the car. I remember afresh to be proud of my young apprentice, and give her a congratulatory hug. May we share many more summits!

Melaleuca: Down the River of Time

That night we play cards in the ranger’s hut: a game of “Up and Down the River”. Despite my ignorance of the rules, I finish equal second, almost clinching a card-shark reputation.

On the walk back to my Nissen Hut a full moon sails clear of cloud. I take my camera down to Moth Creek to try and photograph her reflections. I always seem to think of the moon as feminine. The creek is wide and still, and the moon reflects perfectly from its molten, dark surface. But my photographs fail to capture her wonderful light and alluring face. Some faces just resist being well photographed. I suppose that’s what memory is for.

The molten surface of Moth Creek, Melaleuca, SW Tasmania 

Though I’m standing on a modern jetty, the moon reminds me that this area holds far older stories. It's highly plausible to view this whole south-west landscape as an artefact of Aboriginal burning over 30-40 000 years. Looking at the broad expanses of buttongrass, and the relatively small patches of forest, it makes sense.

Buttongrass thrives under a regime of regular, if small scale, firing. If its left unburned, scrub and then forest start to assert themselves over moorland. With rainfall as high as what is received here, you would, under other circumstances, expect to find much more rainforest. Indeed you do find it along rivers and in sheltered patches, but it’s not as expansive as it might be.

Why did Aboriginal Tasmanians burn this country? Two reasons stand out. Firstly fire in buttongrass moorland is followed by strong regrowth, and this “green-pick” attracts grazing animals. They are more easily seen, and more easily hunted, when concentrated in a small recently-burned patch. Secondly a burned landscape is easier to move through than a scrub-covered one. That’s good for a nomadic people, as any bushwalker could confirm!

A well-fed pademelon: one marsupial favoured by the selective burning of moorland 

The so-called “conciliator of Aborigines”, G.A. Robinson, walked through this area with his party in 1830. Whatever harm his attempts to round-up and resettle the original Tasmanians might have done, he seems to have been motivated by a genuine concern for them as human beings. This, remember, occurred during a time of martial law in an often lawless colony. Life was cheap, and the lives of natives, for some, ranked below that of livestock. The impact and worth of Robinson's missions may be vigorously debated, for sure. But on a purely physical level, his journeys through this country were extraordinary.

For over four months, Robinson and a party of up to 20, journeyed from Recherche Bay in the south-east to the far south-west and west coasts. They walked first along what are now the South Coast and Port Davey Tracks, at the time either untracked or Aboriginal routes. They then travelled to places as fearful - and exciting - to bushwalkers as the Western Arthur Range and the west coast between Window Pane Bay and Macquarie Harbour.

An aerial view of the rugged Western Arthur Range in fine weather! 

Robinson kept a detailed journal, at times accutely describing the ruggedness and beauty of the landscape; at others bemoaning the numerous illnesses, personnel difficulties and weather set-backs of the summer/autumn trip. An excerpt from 10 March 1830, gives a flavour.

Here nature appeared in all her pristine forms; perpendicular cliffs, immense chasms through which the water was heard to gush with frightful roar, mountain tops hid in the clouds, and anon the piercing wind gushing up the ravines rendered our situation truly uncomfortable.

I continued still very unwell. Yet there was no alternative; to decline was useless. No medical assistant, no friend near to soothe or to offer consolation. The night excessive cold.

While the party was occasionally re-supplied by boat, it was otherwise self-sufficient. I marvel at this mixed group of British and Aboriginal men making such a journey without all the 'survival' gear modern walkers count essential. But then Robinson and co. had both the assistance of the 'natives' (as they called them) and the psychological goad of not wanting to concede to 'weakness' in front of the same.

The dubious reputation of Robinson within the contemporary Tasmanian Aboriginal community is tempered for some by the detailed observations he made of Aboriginal life, beliefs and customs in the 1830s. While he may not always be trusted as accurate, there are precious few other contemporary accounts.

We've noted already that Robinson saw many Aboriginal huts around Melaleuca, and that the area appeared to be a “resort” for the Needwonee people. Apart from having a good supply of water, game and especially swan's eggs, the area between Melaleuca and Cox Bight also appears to have had a strong spiritual significance. 

Through conversation with his Aboriginal companions, Robinson learned that one of their central creation stories took place here. In that tale one of the ancestor spirits, Moinee, “was hurled from heaven and dwelt on the earth, and died and was turned into a stone and is at Coxes Bight.” This is probably at Point Eric, in the middle of the bight.

Visiting this broad, bleak and beautiful landscape, it is not difficult to see its special significance. The river of time has touched this place over a very long period, with little else to obliterate its work. Before the Moinee story, before Cox Bight even existed, sea levels were much lower than they are today. The Needwonee’s ancestors would have walked over land to what are now the De Witt and Maatsuyker Islands, but what would then have been hills.

The river flows back further still. Before humans, there were other animals. During our visit we see many birds, including wonderfully cryptic ground parrots, and some mammals, especially pademelons. We find evidence of many more: a ringtail possum dray in a tree; wombat droppings; echidna scratchings. All of these have lived here, and in landscapes that have now worn away, for millions rather than thousands of years.

Where's Wallicus? Can you find the ground parrot (Pezoporus wallicus) in this picture? 

But that too is an eye-blink in geological time. The quartzite that is the foundation of much of the south-west is Precambrian rock perhaps one billion years old. The moon is around four billion years old, the earth itself older still, and the river of time flows back beyond that.

That night, as I stare at the moon reflecting from the surface of Moth Creek, I ponder the whole nature of time and space, and what is behind it all. Some, like me, sense a mind … even a heart. Some sense nothing at all. But both are ready to be awed and humbled by that experience. Better that than never stopping to reflect at all.