[part 13 of a 15 part series decribing an ascent of Tasmania's Federation Peak]
13) Down But Not Out
Bechervaise Plateau, Thursday February 7th, 1991
We stumble back to the campsite in heavy rain. Surrounded by mud, exhausted, windblown and wet to the skin, we should be miserable. We’re far from it, at least until Bill shares a worse-than-useless bit of news with us. He tells us he’s been accompanied all the way down by a tune that sprang into his head while we were on top. Unfortunately it’s the Carpenters’ song “Top of the World”. And not only does he share this with us, he actually sings a verse out loud.
Something in the wind has learned my name
And it’s tellin’ me that things are not the same
In the leaves on the trees and the touch of the breeze
There’s a pleasin’ sense of happiness for me.
Inexplicably we find ourselves joining him for the chorus, Jim and I going so far as to hold imaginary microphones up to our mouths.
I’m on the top of the world lookin’ down on creation
And the only explanation I can find
Is the love that I’ve found ever since you’ve been around
Your love’s put me at the top of the world.
Our choral complicity implies for one brief moment that we think the song somewhat apt. But when Bill tries another verse we quickly come to our senses, and threaten to throw him over the nearest cliff if he dares to sing or mention the song again. He pretends to be offended, but gives the game away by grinning cunningly. He knows that the damage is done, that we will each internally hum that infernal tune right through our (very wet) dinner preparations. He stays silent as we eat, but his look is that of a farmer who’s just finished sowing his crop as the rain begins.
We finish dinner hastily and choose to leave our pots and dishes outside in the rain. The only precaution we take against wind and wildlife is to weigh the plates down with rocks. With a bit of luck the possums and the rain might even wash up for us.
Safely inside the tent, wet gear removed and stowed, I lie back with a feeling of utter contentment. It can rain; it can pour; it can blow; it can roar! Nothing can take this away. I have been mortally afraid for most of the day, and more than edgy for the whole trip. And yet I have kept going, and have achieved all that I could possibly hope for out of this trip.
A fresh squall thwacks into the wall of the tent, rain batters the roof. I just shrug deeper into the sleeping bag and smile. I feel a deep sense of satisfaction that borders on joy. Certainly I have come through this trial by ordeal, but there’s more to it than that. For most of the last year I have struggled to believe that I could do even the most basic things implied in being a husband, father, home-owner, bread-winner, friend, worshipper, creative soul. Never a depressive character, I have nonetheless gone through some dark valleys. I had begun to believe that I was of use to no-one. Despite two degrees and a diploma, a wide-ranging CV , and a genuine desire to be useful to society via my work, I can’t even get an interview for a half-decent job.
There have been times when I’ve been ready to give up, to simply pull a metaphorical blanket over my head, and ignore the cajolers, encouragers and others who want to whip me into more acceptable shape. But now, after this, I feel ready for anything. If I have stared down my long-held fear of this mountain; if I have kept going when my apprehensions would’ve had me turn back; if I’ve kept faith with my walking mates through good and bad, then I’m ready to face afresh the challenges of earning a living.
I have never counted myself among any kind of elite in the physical sphere. I’m more of a trier; a persistent type; a sticker. These aren’t virtues that rate on any elite list I’ve ever seen. Yet out here and – I was starting to believe – back in the working world, the ability to keep going even in the face of difficulties must count for something. It might not move mountains, but it could get you to the top of them. Even to the top of Tasmania’s hardest mountain.
Just before drifting off to sleep I pray again. It’s a blanket prayer of thankfulness for survival certainly. But there’s a deeply personal note of gratefulness too; a fundamental recognition that even out here in the wilds I haven’t been beyond the care of the one who delights in making and maintaining this magnificent world. As I slip into slumber the wind and rain roar a loud amen that not even the Carpenters can drown out.
Showing posts with label Bechervaise Plateau. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Bechervaise Plateau. Show all posts
Wednesday, 29 July 2009
Tuesday, 21 July 2009
Federation Peak - Part 8
[part 8 of a 15 part series describing an ascent of Tasmania's Federation Peak]
8) Bechervaise
Bechervaise Plateau, Wednesday February 6th, 1991
Bechervaise Plateau is actually an undulating, partly open moor surrounded by mountains and scrubby forest. But all is overpowered by the presence of Federation’s north-east face – a bulging, misshapen forehead of rock jutting 350 metres straight up from the plateau, and towering massively above us. Our relief at getting there is muted by Federation’s stunning physical presence. It is too close for good photographs, yet still forbiddingly far above us.
At a far more prosaic level, we’re also slightly miffed to find all the good tent sites taken. At least we know it’s Ray and his party, who have been a day ahead of us the whole way up. We drop our packs and slump beside them to rest and drink. When we eventually recover enough to look for alternative tent sites, we hear voices from high above. We pick out the very familiar two-noted “Awww Oy” call from Ray. He’s shouting out to us from the summit. They’ve made it! Ray is in his 70s, and has been trying to get to the top of Federation for nearly a decade. Three or four times unfavourable weather or injuries in his group have turned him back. At last this tenacious and legendary bushwalker, my first walking mentor in Tasmania, has achieved the best of summits. We are thrilled at his success, and yell our congratulations on high. We follow up with the question “How long?”, meaning how long has it taken them from Bechervaise to the summit. After much miss-hearing and repetition, we think they are telling us “Four hours!”
I can’t believe he was thinking it possible, but after the exchange finishes, Jim says to us “that’s four hours up, maybe three hours back … which makes it a bit too late for us to try and reach the top this arvo’.” We consider it for a minute. If we leave now we wouldn’t be back till at least 10. Dusk lasts well past 9pm, and the weather is clear and calm. But that could leave perhaps an hour’s descent in the growing dark, not a good mixture on an unknown mountain. When we add to that Jim’s fall and the physical efforts of the day to this point, it’s clear that we should stay put. We return to looking for tent sites, although the summit is still very much on our minds. Every now and then we hear one of the summiting party. They’re really enjoying being up there, but eventually they leave the top and start descending on the far side of the mountain, mostly out of earshot, if not out of mind. Bill finally articulates what a few of us are thinking: “Good old Ray. Ya know if he can make it at his age, and his whole party with him, then we’ve got no excuses.” I doubt that we need any more motivation, but if we do, there it is. We know most of those in Ray’s party, and while some are excellent walkers, some are having their first foray into the south-west, and one or two – including Ray – are far from spring chickens.
We have to place the tents a fair distance apart, and even then they’re on lumpy or wet sites: beggars can’t be choosers. After the tents, the “kitchen” and a hot cuppa are the next priority. The weather is sublime, sunny with high cirrus in a blue sky. We relax and enjoy the afternoon, sharing the chocolate around, resting bones and backs weary from two hard days, and minds wary of a harder day to come. A couple of us even take out books, although the occasional biting march fly keeps us from totally relaxing. When Jim jumps up with a sudden “ooh”, we wonder what’s bitten him. But instead he rifles through his pack, triumphantly bringing out a strange looking brown pouch. It turns out to be an old style wine bladder filled with vintage port. Jim assures us it’s an authentic Spanish wineskin, made of leather, “as used by shepherds in the Pyrenees”. It’s a very welcome bonus, and a few of us agree to help lighten Jim’s load. We’re near the end of a warming drop when we again hear voices – this time much closer. It’s Joe and one or two others from Ray’s party, back from the summit.
Before long we all get together to hear the full story. Like two packs of related dogs we’re excited, eager to share news, and just slightly diffident with each other. We find out that we’ve misunderstood their shout from the summit. They meant four hours return – Bechervaise to Federation. Jim and I exchange “we could’ve done it” type glances before switching to the weather. We ask Ray what he thinks it will do, and the notoriously optimistic walker, who uses a dangling handkerchief as often as a barometer to predict the weather, shakes his head doubtfully. “Cirrus comes before a change … a front’ll probably come through early tomorrow.” We brush his prediction off, and end our time together with hearty congratulations all ‘round. But the weather is uppermost in our thoughts as we go to our tents that night.
8) Bechervaise
Bechervaise Plateau, Wednesday February 6th, 1991
Bechervaise Plateau is actually an undulating, partly open moor surrounded by mountains and scrubby forest. But all is overpowered by the presence of Federation’s north-east face – a bulging, misshapen forehead of rock jutting 350 metres straight up from the plateau, and towering massively above us. Our relief at getting there is muted by Federation’s stunning physical presence. It is too close for good photographs, yet still forbiddingly far above us.
At a far more prosaic level, we’re also slightly miffed to find all the good tent sites taken. At least we know it’s Ray and his party, who have been a day ahead of us the whole way up. We drop our packs and slump beside them to rest and drink. When we eventually recover enough to look for alternative tent sites, we hear voices from high above. We pick out the very familiar two-noted “Awww Oy” call from Ray. He’s shouting out to us from the summit. They’ve made it! Ray is in his 70s, and has been trying to get to the top of Federation for nearly a decade. Three or four times unfavourable weather or injuries in his group have turned him back. At last this tenacious and legendary bushwalker, my first walking mentor in Tasmania, has achieved the best of summits. We are thrilled at his success, and yell our congratulations on high. We follow up with the question “How long?”, meaning how long has it taken them from Bechervaise to the summit. After much miss-hearing and repetition, we think they are telling us “Four hours!”
I can’t believe he was thinking it possible, but after the exchange finishes, Jim says to us “that’s four hours up, maybe three hours back … which makes it a bit too late for us to try and reach the top this arvo’.” We consider it for a minute. If we leave now we wouldn’t be back till at least 10. Dusk lasts well past 9pm, and the weather is clear and calm. But that could leave perhaps an hour’s descent in the growing dark, not a good mixture on an unknown mountain. When we add to that Jim’s fall and the physical efforts of the day to this point, it’s clear that we should stay put. We return to looking for tent sites, although the summit is still very much on our minds. Every now and then we hear one of the summiting party. They’re really enjoying being up there, but eventually they leave the top and start descending on the far side of the mountain, mostly out of earshot, if not out of mind. Bill finally articulates what a few of us are thinking: “Good old Ray. Ya know if he can make it at his age, and his whole party with him, then we’ve got no excuses.” I doubt that we need any more motivation, but if we do, there it is. We know most of those in Ray’s party, and while some are excellent walkers, some are having their first foray into the south-west, and one or two – including Ray – are far from spring chickens.
We have to place the tents a fair distance apart, and even then they’re on lumpy or wet sites: beggars can’t be choosers. After the tents, the “kitchen” and a hot cuppa are the next priority. The weather is sublime, sunny with high cirrus in a blue sky. We relax and enjoy the afternoon, sharing the chocolate around, resting bones and backs weary from two hard days, and minds wary of a harder day to come. A couple of us even take out books, although the occasional biting march fly keeps us from totally relaxing. When Jim jumps up with a sudden “ooh”, we wonder what’s bitten him. But instead he rifles through his pack, triumphantly bringing out a strange looking brown pouch. It turns out to be an old style wine bladder filled with vintage port. Jim assures us it’s an authentic Spanish wineskin, made of leather, “as used by shepherds in the Pyrenees”. It’s a very welcome bonus, and a few of us agree to help lighten Jim’s load. We’re near the end of a warming drop when we again hear voices – this time much closer. It’s Joe and one or two others from Ray’s party, back from the summit.
Before long we all get together to hear the full story. Like two packs of related dogs we’re excited, eager to share news, and just slightly diffident with each other. We find out that we’ve misunderstood their shout from the summit. They meant four hours return – Bechervaise to Federation. Jim and I exchange “we could’ve done it” type glances before switching to the weather. We ask Ray what he thinks it will do, and the notoriously optimistic walker, who uses a dangling handkerchief as often as a barometer to predict the weather, shakes his head doubtfully. “Cirrus comes before a change … a front’ll probably come through early tomorrow.” We brush his prediction off, and end our time together with hearty congratulations all ‘round. But the weather is uppermost in our thoughts as we go to our tents that night.
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.
Sunday, 19 July 2009
Federation Peak - Part 2
[part 2 of a 15 part series describing an ascent of Tasmania's Federation Peak]
2) A Cautionary Tale
Hobart, late January 1991
Ever careful with his preparation, Jim has found out that his friend, Alderman Rob Valentine*, went to Federation in the early 80s. So we’re all at Jim’s place for a briefing on the climb from Rob. His account is calm, methodical, and shocking. The party he’s with has reached Lower Bechervaise Plateau via Moss Ridge a couple of days ahead of another group approaching the mountain from the Thwaites Plateau route. Rob & co. have had a rough trip up Moss Ridge in very hot weather. Their exhaustion is compounded by dehydration, and they decide to have a lay day in order to recuperate.
So it’s the following day, rested and ready, that they finally – and successfully – climb the peak. They are back at Bechervaise campsite in the late afternoon when they hear the yahooing of the following group, more than three hundred vertical metres above them. It is, they guess, the sound of a successful summit climb. Some time later they hear more yelling, and assume it is simply more summit shenanigans. After returning to Hobart they are shocked to learn from the television news that they’ve actually heard the scream of a fatal fall. Two walkers have been climbing as part of a larger party coming up from Thwaites Plateau. They have reached the top, and on their way down one has successfully negotiated a nasty part of the descent just below the summit. She waits below for the other, the next to descend, encouraging him with comments on how his longer legs are making it easier for him. But then, momentarily forgetting where she is standing, the first walker has stepped backwards into thin air. She has fallen more than 100 metres off the southern face of Federation Peak to her death. Her companions have screamed in horror and disbelief – apparently the sound that Rob’s party have heard. At the site of the fall, Rob reminds us, the total exposure is some 600 metres to Lake Geeves below.
We listen with horrified curiosity, and a rapidly growing doubt about the wisdom of our whole venture. The knot in my stomach leaves no room for the supper Cheryl brings out at this point. To be fair to Rob, he hasn’t come here to scare us. In some ways he’s encouraged us with his self-disparaging account of his own summit success. He implies that if a less-than-athletic man such as himself can do it, we should have no worries. We mutter half-hearted agreement, ask about some track and navigation issues, and politely shuffle bits of cheese and dip around the plates. But what I take from that night are the scream and the fall. And they stay with me over the coming weeks.
* My thanks to Rob Valentine, former Lord Mayor of Hobart, for his assistance with this section of the story.
2) A Cautionary Tale
Hobart, late January 1991
Ever careful with his preparation, Jim has found out that his friend, Alderman Rob Valentine*, went to Federation in the early 80s. So we’re all at Jim’s place for a briefing on the climb from Rob. His account is calm, methodical, and shocking. The party he’s with has reached Lower Bechervaise Plateau via Moss Ridge a couple of days ahead of another group approaching the mountain from the Thwaites Plateau route. Rob & co. have had a rough trip up Moss Ridge in very hot weather. Their exhaustion is compounded by dehydration, and they decide to have a lay day in order to recuperate.
So it’s the following day, rested and ready, that they finally – and successfully – climb the peak. They are back at Bechervaise campsite in the late afternoon when they hear the yahooing of the following group, more than three hundred vertical metres above them. It is, they guess, the sound of a successful summit climb. Some time later they hear more yelling, and assume it is simply more summit shenanigans. After returning to Hobart they are shocked to learn from the television news that they’ve actually heard the scream of a fatal fall. Two walkers have been climbing as part of a larger party coming up from Thwaites Plateau. They have reached the top, and on their way down one has successfully negotiated a nasty part of the descent just below the summit. She waits below for the other, the next to descend, encouraging him with comments on how his longer legs are making it easier for him. But then, momentarily forgetting where she is standing, the first walker has stepped backwards into thin air. She has fallen more than 100 metres off the southern face of Federation Peak to her death. Her companions have screamed in horror and disbelief – apparently the sound that Rob’s party have heard. At the site of the fall, Rob reminds us, the total exposure is some 600 metres to Lake Geeves below.
We listen with horrified curiosity, and a rapidly growing doubt about the wisdom of our whole venture. The knot in my stomach leaves no room for the supper Cheryl brings out at this point. To be fair to Rob, he hasn’t come here to scare us. In some ways he’s encouraged us with his self-disparaging account of his own summit success. He implies that if a less-than-athletic man such as himself can do it, we should have no worries. We mutter half-hearted agreement, ask about some track and navigation issues, and politely shuffle bits of cheese and dip around the plates. But what I take from that night are the scream and the fall. And they stay with me over the coming weeks.
* My thanks to Rob Valentine, former Lord Mayor of Hobart, for his assistance with this section of the story.
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