[part 11 of a 15 part series decribing an ascent of Tasmania's Federation Peak]
11) The Top
Federation Peak, Thursday February 7th, 1991
We almost moon-walk the last yards to the summit. My jelly legs have regained solidity, easily carrying a body now seemingly weightless. I push into the tearing wind, a fierce and silly grin on my face. I see the look mirrored in Bill’s face as he touches the summit cairn. Jim, Margaret and the Doc beam through their exhaustion too as they reach out to touch the top. We’ve made it! We have climbed Federation Peak!
Before we stop, or collapse, or break into wild celebration, we check how Peter and Natalie are faring. With only the briefest of delays and minimal help, they are soon on top with us. For a moment, perhaps, we can think of ourselves as a magnificent seven. We share hugs all ‘round, lift drink bottles as a toast. Then we grin some more; remind each other again of what we’ve achieved; and blather about the details of the scary sections. All the while we’re virtually shouting at each other to be heard over the wind.
The summit area is surprisingly spacious. I’d thought it would be peaky and vertiginous, but while you mightn’t play a proper game of cricket here, French cricket wouldn’t be out of the question. Had we tried that, someone could’ve justifiably appealed against the light. Dark clouds have built up to the west and south, and most of the mountains to the north and north-west have grey scuds around them. Despite this the views are every bit as sensational as we’d imagined. We recognise the Anne Range to the north. Anne herself, the highest peak in the south-west, and the scene of last summer’s brush with vertigo, is already in cloud. Further west the raggedly-torn tops of the Western Arthur Range, with some of the Franklands behind, are still free of cloud.
In almost every direction there are shaggy, craggy mountains and hills; greying summits jutting out of rumpled green, deeply shaded foothills. Where the mountains peter out, in an arc to the south, we clearly see the indented coast, and beyond that the oncoming rain clouds. But into every rain a little sunshine must fall. As we watch, a warmly golden swathe of sunshine momentarily bathes the coastline from Precipitous Bluff to Prion Beach, some 30km distant. For a short while it is a distant paradise of sunlit sands, white-capped waves and deep blue ocean: a window on heaven; a moment of grace; a jewel in the crown of our wonderful and unlikely achievement.
But the raven-black clouds beyond remind us of what’s coming, and of where we might be when it arrives. As I turn to alert Jim, I find him filling out the summit log-book. It has been wedged into the summit cairn, housed in a heavy metal box, as weather proof as it could be in such a setting. Yes, of course we must leave our names among the illustrious ones, and perhaps achieve a modicum of magnificence by association. But then we must get off this mountain before the fury of a south-west change breaks upon it.
Showing posts with label Anne Range. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Anne Range. Show all posts
Friday, 24 July 2009
Tuesday, 21 July 2009
Federation Peak - Part 7
[part 7 of a 15 part series describing an ascent of Tasmania's Federation Peak]
7) Moss Ridge Real
Moss Ridge, Wednesday February 6th, 1991
Does the weather matter today? We’ll be slogging uphill all day on the south-west’s equivalent of the Kokoda Trail. Can it be any more challenging even if it rains, hails or snows? We’ve heard no tales of death on Moss Ridge, but every other kind of bushwalking horror story seems to have been attached to this steep ridge of clay, mud, rock and roots. “Hanrahan” is only the latest to add a tincture of doom to this place and this day.
But the weather is clear and mainly sunny, and we wave an early farewell to “Hanrahan”, who can’t resist a few final words of woe. They’re rather addled, something about the weather being fine now, “but a crocodile smiles before he eats you!” Thus comforted we shrug our packs back into the grooves they’ve made and immediately enter the jungle gym that is Moss Ridge.
To be honest this is the day I have feared the most. We have carried a rope as insurance following stories of crumbling mud cliffs, and steep four-limbed scrambling. We’ve been advised that we may need to climb some sections without packs, and use the rope to hoist the packs. Some of us have pack-hauled on a previous trip in the south-west’s Anne Range. On that occasion one or two of us had climbed up the notorious “slot” on Mt Lot without packs. Those below had then tied packs to the rope and we’d hauled the gear up the cliff one piece at a time. Finally we’d helped the other climbers up, with the rope as a safety line. Here on Moss Ridge our progress feels slow enough without the added bother of pack-hauling, so I stubbornly climb with my pack on. The snag with this ploy is that I reach the tops first, and for a time I become the chief pack-hauler. It is exhausting work. As well as hauling we are sometimes crawling uphill, scraping beneath stubborn branches of horizontal scrub, bauera and ti-tree; unhitching our packs, our limbs, our very heads from the ensnaring scrub through sheer brute force. “Do that for a few hours and a quiet death in the snow starts to look appealing” one advisor had cheerily opined.
In the midst of these trials, Jim suddenly slips on a mud-slimed rock and falls heavily. He lands chest-first on a protruding tree root, the full weight of his pack on top of him. Grunting with pain, he rolls over, and lies there stunned and winded. We help him get his pack off and sit him up to assess the injury. With the wind knocked out of him, Jim initially can’t speak. As he begins to recover we can’t help noting what an unusual phenomenon that is. Jim laughs, and grabs his chest in fresh pain. He’s fallen on his ribs, one of which is particularly agonising to the touch. The Doc – actually a gynaecologist – checks him out, and simply suggests a rest and a bit of water. He quietly adds that he’d probably be a bit more help if it was a breach presentation. After another painful laugh and several minutes of rest Jim starts to feel slightly better. We discuss his state with him, and he reckons he’ll be okay to go on. Only after the trip does Jim confirm that he’s cracked a rib. But by then it is a war wound to brag about rather than a trip-threatening injury. At the time the only alternative to going on is going back. Given that it’ll hurt either way, Jim opts to go on, and we acquiesce. In hindsight it was a brave call, but at the time we’d never have told Jim that! Instead we struggle on, keeping half an eye on Jim. We also look out for some small tent-sites that are supposedly hacked into the thick scrub part way up the ridge, in case we need to stop early for Jim.
Between these distractions and those of the on-going obstacle course, we’re surprised to find Moss Ridge beginning to level out. We’re almost at Bechervaise Plateau, our destination for the day. Despite the terrain and the mishap, we’ve only taken 6 hours, and it is still just mid afternoon.
7) Moss Ridge Real
Moss Ridge, Wednesday February 6th, 1991
Does the weather matter today? We’ll be slogging uphill all day on the south-west’s equivalent of the Kokoda Trail. Can it be any more challenging even if it rains, hails or snows? We’ve heard no tales of death on Moss Ridge, but every other kind of bushwalking horror story seems to have been attached to this steep ridge of clay, mud, rock and roots. “Hanrahan” is only the latest to add a tincture of doom to this place and this day.
But the weather is clear and mainly sunny, and we wave an early farewell to “Hanrahan”, who can’t resist a few final words of woe. They’re rather addled, something about the weather being fine now, “but a crocodile smiles before he eats you!” Thus comforted we shrug our packs back into the grooves they’ve made and immediately enter the jungle gym that is Moss Ridge.
To be honest this is the day I have feared the most. We have carried a rope as insurance following stories of crumbling mud cliffs, and steep four-limbed scrambling. We’ve been advised that we may need to climb some sections without packs, and use the rope to hoist the packs. Some of us have pack-hauled on a previous trip in the south-west’s Anne Range. On that occasion one or two of us had climbed up the notorious “slot” on Mt Lot without packs. Those below had then tied packs to the rope and we’d hauled the gear up the cliff one piece at a time. Finally we’d helped the other climbers up, with the rope as a safety line. Here on Moss Ridge our progress feels slow enough without the added bother of pack-hauling, so I stubbornly climb with my pack on. The snag with this ploy is that I reach the tops first, and for a time I become the chief pack-hauler. It is exhausting work. As well as hauling we are sometimes crawling uphill, scraping beneath stubborn branches of horizontal scrub, bauera and ti-tree; unhitching our packs, our limbs, our very heads from the ensnaring scrub through sheer brute force. “Do that for a few hours and a quiet death in the snow starts to look appealing” one advisor had cheerily opined.
In the midst of these trials, Jim suddenly slips on a mud-slimed rock and falls heavily. He lands chest-first on a protruding tree root, the full weight of his pack on top of him. Grunting with pain, he rolls over, and lies there stunned and winded. We help him get his pack off and sit him up to assess the injury. With the wind knocked out of him, Jim initially can’t speak. As he begins to recover we can’t help noting what an unusual phenomenon that is. Jim laughs, and grabs his chest in fresh pain. He’s fallen on his ribs, one of which is particularly agonising to the touch. The Doc – actually a gynaecologist – checks him out, and simply suggests a rest and a bit of water. He quietly adds that he’d probably be a bit more help if it was a breach presentation. After another painful laugh and several minutes of rest Jim starts to feel slightly better. We discuss his state with him, and he reckons he’ll be okay to go on. Only after the trip does Jim confirm that he’s cracked a rib. But by then it is a war wound to brag about rather than a trip-threatening injury. At the time the only alternative to going on is going back. Given that it’ll hurt either way, Jim opts to go on, and we acquiesce. In hindsight it was a brave call, but at the time we’d never have told Jim that! Instead we struggle on, keeping half an eye on Jim. We also look out for some small tent-sites that are supposedly hacked into the thick scrub part way up the ridge, in case we need to stop early for Jim.
Between these distractions and those of the on-going obstacle course, we’re surprised to find Moss Ridge beginning to level out. We’re almost at Bechervaise Plateau, our destination for the day. Despite the terrain and the mishap, we’ve only taken 6 hours, and it is still just mid afternoon.
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