Taking a Question for a Walk

“How much longer do you think you’ll be overnight bushwalking?” 

That question comes as two bushwalkers with a long, shared history sit in the back of a car on the way to Lake Mackenzie, in Tasmania’s Central Highlands. They’re both in their 70s, so it isn’t a purely idle question. Few of us get to our 70s unscathed. We often have bodily issues – inside and out – that start to impinge on our physical capabilities. 

A case in point: one month ago, with two younger bushwalking friends, they had travelled up from Hobart to Mole Creek. They’d planned to stay overnight in the hotel then drive up to Lake Mackenzie for a three day bushwalk in the Blue Peaks area. But overnight one of them had become quite ill. The walk had to end before it had even begun. 

Fast forward to the March Long Weekend. The same four; the same plan. Blue Peaks: Take Two. The night at the hotel was very pleasant. They’d eaten well, then chatted and relaxed around the fire pot as a perfect day slipped gently towards evening. 

[Take Two: Enjoying the fire pit at Mole Creek Hotel]

Next morning their plan was to leave around 9, but they’d surprised themselves by being ready early. The other two in the party had never been to the Blue Peaks, and this was to be their introduction. The pair of older gentlemen had been exploring the area for over a decade. For them this was to be a fond return, a gentle exploration rather than an expedition. Still, a walk doesn’t walk itself, nor does a hill climb itself. So, after leaving the car at Lake Mackenzie, there was a degree of puffing uphill from the lake. They’d told the others there wasn’t much of a climb, but one of their watches declared that they may have bent the truth. The ascent was actually around 200m over a few kilometres; not a big climb, but enough to tell out-of-tune bodies that they’d been working. 

[Uphill from Lake Mackenzie]

That, sadly, fitted with the out-of-tune landscape. Damage from the 2016 bushfires that had ravaged this area was still plain to see. Saddest to witness were those plant species that were not recovering, especially pencil pines, sphagnum and some scoparia. In one valley a whole grove of pines had been all-but wiped out. But in the next valley, a similar grove was fully intact. The group paused at both to take in the stark contrast. * 

[Pencil Pines: Fire killed (above) cf Thriving]

The mild challenge of the walk continued when one member of the party misjudged a creek crossing, and fell face-first into ground that was not as soft as they had imagined. Despite a degree of pain and lost dignity, the victim allowed some candid photographs before full composure had been regained. 

[Ooops! A slip and a fall ...]

After a bit over 2 and a half hours, the group reached the campsite, and gladly threw down their packs in a small, hospitable grove of pencil pines. It was good to be back among these familiar pines, breathing their air, taking in a wider scene that’s graced with lakes near and far. And beyond that with mountains, mountains where their feet had been. A fresh breeze swirled around, mainly from the west, so tent sites were chosen with care. Then it was time for lunch, followed by the mandatory water collection. Work done, and muscles whinging a little, it was time for some relaxation. Truth be told, there may even have been some horizontal resting in tents, away from the mosquitoes that had begun to locate their targets. 

[The view from the Campsite]

Late afternoon, mosquitoes or not, the call of happy hour – with wine, cheese and other delicacies – couldn’t be ignored. They sat in a grassy area around a rock slab that served as their table. It was a beautiful spot to take in the expansive vista across lakes and mountains. And above that the evening sky was beginning to get ready for its daily sunset display. But before that, back in the pine-sheltered kitchen area, meals had to be cooked, compared and consumed. As they sat back replete, the chatter indicated that the two who were new to the area were warming to this much-favoured destination. 

After dinner one member of the party had unaccountably restless legs, and decided to go for an after-dinner walk. No-one else was keen to add more miles to their day’s tally, so he wandered solo down to the neighbouring lake, then along its shore. The water was low, the "tide" out. Perhaps that accounted for the absence of the swans that normally settled overnight on the lake.

[Lakeside scene a few hundred metres from Camp]

The small details of the Central Plateau are one of its lesser-known gems. For instance: golden mountain rocket. He’d been here before with his wife, and they’d delighted in finding golden seed heads in place of the expected red ones on a few mountain rocket plants. A botanist had told them this was rare, but not unknown. And now, as he ambled along the lake, he was finding more golden variants, albeit far outnumbered by the red version. But the sun was lowering, and it was time to return “home” for the sunset show. 

[The Usual Red Seed Heads on Mountain Rocket]

[Golden Seed Heads on Mountain Rocket]

Back at camp, he found the two "newbies" had already headed tent-ward. So, it was only the two stalwarts who braved the growing cold to watch this ever-new, ever-changing show on the widest of widescreens. A neat array of clouds hovered above the horizon: a promising arrangement for a sunset show. As they waited and watched, the sun seemed in no hurry, and their scrutiny didn't speed proceedings. They distracted themselves by marvelling at hundreds of moths that fluttered into the dusk sky, and spiralled around the nearby pencil pines. They were glad they far outnumbered the mosquitoes.

Eventually the sun did the miraculous thing it has done every day since our planet was formed: it dipped below the horizon. (Or, more correctly, our planet rotated out of the path of the sun’s rays). Now for the cold and patient wait for the sunlight on the underside of the clouds to finish off the show as it saw fit. The two of them photographed, chatted, waited, shivered, and photographed some more. And they reminded each other that they were, after all, at the same altitude as Kunanyi/Mt Wellington, and that warm gloves might have been a good idea!

[Sunset from the Campsite]

Had they been blasé television critics, they might have rated the sunset as good rather than great. But that would have been churlish, when really, their eyes were shining as they slowly turned from the westerly sky to take in the wider scene one more time. There was only a waft of breeze, and clouds were small and disorganised, suggesting they’d have a calm if chilly night in their tents. 

[Late sun near Camp, with a sunlit Little Throne, (centre back)]

It turned out calm for some, but for one party member, it was anything but. Cue the return of the same symptoms of an underlying illness that had scuttled their previous walk. The patient, they learned in the morning, had been up several times during the night. Digging holes for urgent toileting in the dark is no fun, they were told. Add rain and a torch failure, and … (the rest required little imagination). 

There was little discussion. If the situation was short of “press the button, call the helicopter”, it definitely required an early departure. Our patient was as upset about abandoning a second trip as he was about feeling crook. The other three simply accepted the necessity of getting out a day early. So they began packing. The patient couldn’t hold down any breakfast, but he sipped some hot water, and slowly packed up. 

[Healthy, well-watered Sphagnum and Pencil Pines]

Fortunately, the overnight drizzle and showers now held off, and they packed up mostly dry gear, and got walking before 10am. In theory the walk back would be easier and quicker than the journey here. But that didn’t factor in a sick walker with no energy, who felt as though he was swimming upstream, even on a mostly downhill walk. For him, simply setting one foot in front of the other was an achievement. That made getting back to Lake Mackenzie in around the same time as yesterday’s walk in, an amazing effort. 

Despite the early forced departure, the group agreed that they had still met the walk’s major objective. The door to a special place had been opened for the “newbies”, and they were sure they’d be back. As for the patient, medical advice and time would determine his answer to that question posed in the back of the car on the way in to Lake Mackenzie. 

[Seed head, possibly Showy Copperwire Daisy] 

* It was heartening to see that the University of Tasmania, in collaboration with Hydro Tasmania, has begun restoration trials in the area, including the re-planting of pencil pines.

Back in the Saddle: Part 1

A grumpy Jim moment a few years back: The wind is howling from the south-west as we walk across the Central Plateau. Occasional showers of cold, near-horizontal rain lash us. We endure it for as long as we can, then seek shelter of sorts behind a low jumble of rocks. Hunched down, we swig water, scoff scroggin, and suck air back into our lungs. The wind keeps thundering past, but a bit of sun shines on us. I take it as a signal to get moving again. But as I stand up to leave, Jim stays put, stoic and unmoving on his rocky perch. I snap a quick photo. Barely audible over the blasting wind, I hear him mumble a caption: “Jim’s last bushwalk”. 

Jim's Last Walk?

Of course it wasn’t his last walk. Jim tends to exaggerate at times. But it is fair to say that since that trip, his prerequisite list for walks has expanded. If the potential walk is long; the forecast wet; the going scrubby or off-track; the walk is in the south-west; or it doesn’t include a hut, he’s likely to be “unavailable”. Part of me can understand some of this. After all he and I are now in our 70s, and we have done this kind of rugged walking together for near enough to forty years. We already have so many great shared memories, including summiting Federation Peak, Tasmania’s hardest mountain. But another part of me isn’t ready for bushwalking to be just tales told from the armchair. And in Jim’s case, I reckon there’s life in the old dog yet. 

It’s against this background, with winter looming, that Jim gives the slightest hint that he wouldn’t mind a bit of a leg stretch. I need no further encouragement, and tell him about a new-to-us hut in the Great Western Tiers area. I enthuse further: it’s less than two hours from the track head, and (crucially) it has a wood heater. After the mildest of arm twisting, Jim is in. We carve out a few days, pack the car, and get set to drive up towards Mole Creek. 

Jim ready to start

But before we get to that, it's fair to mention a couple of other key reasons behind Jim’s pickiness about bushwalks. One is what he would call a “dicky knee”, the result of falling downstairs while carrying a load for someone. Despite physio. work, this continues to cause him grief at times, and to make walking something of a lottery. But a more serious issue was revealed after a series of medical visits; the kind that people of our age can’t (and shouldn’t) avoid. Jim has found that he has atrial fibrillation (hereafter AFib). It’s a not-uncommon heart condition in which the upper chambers of the heart (atria) beat out of sync with the lower chambers (ventricles). This results in an irregular and often more rapid heartbeat, and can lead to various complications. I’ll leave you to look it up, so you can potentially be one of those “helpful” friends who gives advice based on “Doctor Google”, rather than a decade or more of medical training. 

Understandably Jim has not been tickety-boo about all this. As a precaution he’s purchased a new watch that can warn him when he goes into AFib. Although for him the condition is largely asymptomatic, it does mean that during an episode he will have to work harder. “It’s like walking into a headwind, or swimming upstream” he tells me. All of this had been enough to flatten his normally jovial disposition. But it may also explain the above “Jim’s last bushwalk” grumpiness. He was possibly having an (undiagnosed) AFib episode during that walk. 

It's all uphill

More recently he’s received some better news. Follow-up tests and a checkup with his cardiologist have brightened the outlook somewhat. Amid the better news came one piece of advice that stood out: Just get on with life! And since one of the joys of life is to be walking into the wilds – even if Jim will find it harder – here we are, ready to walk into the wintery mountains. 

It's cool and a little cloudy, and the forecast is “mixed”; not ideal walking weather. Even so we can’t rule out the possibility of other walkers being up at the hut. So, when we arrive at the rather remote track head, and there’s one other car there, we’re apprehensive. We begin to make the mental adjustment to the prospect of sharing the hut. That shift of focus is probably a good distraction from us both becoming walking heart monitors, given the medical background to our trip. Instead, we just hoist packs and start walking towards whatever will be. 

Within 15 minutes we see two walkers coming down the track towards us. We ask them our critical questions, and are relieved. Yes, it’s their car in the carpark, and no, they’re not staying the night at the hut. Better still, they tell us, there’s no-one else there. We chat cheerily for a few minutes, then wish them well and set off uphill. Now farmland gives way to regrowth forest, and the track begins to narrow, its verges green and mossy, with contrasting pops of colourful fungi. 

Moss, ferns and fungi 

Colourful trackside fungi

We cross a pedestrian bridge where there was once a road bridge. Water trickles and tinkles beneath us, while the trees stretch and rustle high above us. This area was logged until late last century, but some big trees escaped the axe and chainsaw. The steepness of the slope might explain their luck, but it also adds to our labour. Although the walk to the hut is shortish, we’re in what you might call “winter shape”, rather than walking fit. We huff and puff up the track, but manage to keep plodding. 

Dwarfed by a giant survivor

We’re soon an hour into the walk, but I resist looking at my GPS map app to check our progress. As amazing as I find this technology, one thing it never seems to do is shorten a walk. But half an hour later, figuring we must be nearing the hut, I sneak a look at my phone map. The blue dot tells me we’re very close, less than 100m. And miraculously it’s right! Just around a bend, in a small clearing of the wet forest, we find the hut. It’s a happy moment, and not only for my hut-o-phile companion. 

The Hut At Last!

We explore the humble hut. It’s cold inside, but neat and dry, and surprisingly well-equipped, with a table and chairs, and of course the wood heater. There are sleeping platforms for 4 or 5, so we can spread out. But our most vital job is to get that fire going. Behind the door we find a bow saw and block-splitter, and outside a repurposed rain tank with a modest supply of firewood. We’ve brought some firelighters with us, but there’s also a supply inside, along with matches. We even discover a toilet with an actual toilet seat (and toilet paper). “Looxury, sheer looxury!” says Jim. 

Expert log splitter at work!

It’s not yet raining, but the forest feels dark and damp. My thermometer tells me it’s 6 degrees C, so we’re more than keen to get the fire started. While Jim gets busy splitting some logs, I saw some branches into firebox size bits. Then we scrounge some dryish kindling from the surrounding bush. An hour later, with the wood heater doing its best, the hut has only reached a modest 11 degrees. Over the couple of days we stay there, we’re surprised that we struggle to warm the hut much more than that. But there are discernible air gaps in the walls, floors and ceiling. Also, the wood heater is set back in the hearth of what was originally an open fire, so a lot of its heat is lost up the chimney. First world problems, we mutter to each other. The mere glow of the fire is enough for now. That, plus a hot brew … and a puffer jacket.

Enjoying the glow, but keeping puffers on.

A Loopy Walk on the Plateau 2

Day 2: Back to Dyer's Downfall

Past tears are present strength

– George MacDonald

 

We left our campsite a little after 10am and continued down Harry Lees Lake – actually a long, two-part lake – for a bit over a kilometre. There was no track, but the going was delightfully open along the lakeside, if a little scrubby once we climbed out of the valley. Again we didn’t know exactly where we were going. But Tim D and Libby, along with Merran (who missed this walk due to work obligations) had come this way before. They were sure we’d find plenty of lakeside camps in the country between Turrana Bluff and Turrana Heights. 

[Clambering around the end of Harry Lees Lake]

First we had to sidle around some lumpy, rocky country, passing some good stands of young pencil pines. Just before we dropped down into a shallow valley, we were visited by a wedge-tailed eagle. It circled us inquisitively for a while before apparently concluding we were neither threat nor food. The wind continued to be strong, and showers were still blowing through occasionally. 

 

Once we were in the valley, we stopped for lunch near a rock shelter. There Tim D told us the story of what happened last time he, Merran and Libby had come this way. They’d been walking towards the head of the Little Fisher valley, and had come down a steep, rocky slope just above where we were now sitting. A slight miss-step by Tim had led to a tumble downslope. Unfortunately one leg had been caught behind the other, and as he fell Tim’s full weight came down on the front leg, which crashed onto a rock. He coolly described the crack he heard as his fibula snapped.

[Pencil pine groves punctuated the walk]

After binding the leg and trying to hobble on, they all realised there was no choice but to use Tim's InReach device to call for helicopter rescue. In telling the story, Tim somewhat downplayed the pain he must have gone through, but the rest of us were squirming during the retelling. And now, some 7 months later, here he was back at the scene of the fall, seemingly quite okay to be returning to what we duly dubbed Dyer’s Downfall. His fractured fibula has healed well, but some damage to his ankle has remained troublesome. Not that we who persistently lagged behind him would have noticed!

[Tim D climbing the tufty slope]

After lunch we climbed steeply and slowly out of the valley, and up towards a shoulder of Turrana Bluff. The last part of the climb was through waterlogged tufty grass, with ample evidence of the wombats and wallabies that helped to keep the grass cropped. It was beautiful walking, though the slope was unrelenting. When we finally crested the rise, there were mutterings about going on to the summit of Turrana Bluff, which was only a kilometre or so away. I gruffly demurred, mainly because I’d found the ascent thus far hard enough without adding a further 200m climb to it. I also pointed out that I’d been there before – albeit decades ago – so I felt no “peak bagger” pull. That might not have been fair to Tim D, who had more reason than most of us to reach that particular summit. But for the time being we decided to leave the climb till later, and instead used our dwindling energy looking for a camp-able lake among the dozens we could now see below us.

[Our camp beside a tarn near Turrana Bluff]

We dropped down through light scrub and the occasional scoparia thicket, and scouted around a few pools, tarns and small lakes sniffing out a suitable spot. We eventually settled on a small tarn around which we could just fit five tents. The forecast had promised the winds would abate, so we weren’t too fussed about any perceived lack of shelter. 

 

That faith in the forecast came back to haunt us. Our tents were shaken all night, the strong winds and rain having come back with a vengeance. It seems no-one slept well, and there could have been much grumbling over breakfast, had the promised fine weather not finally made an appearance. Instead, by 9 am it was a revitalised team that packed day packs, and strode up the hill towards Turrana Bluff. Tim D in particular had a date with the bluff he'd so dramatically missed out on last time. With blue skies and a gently wafting breeze, we could not have chosen a better day for a side trip to the top of this impressive 1454m mountain.

[Summit selfie, Turrana Bluff]

[Tim D and Libby on Turrana Bluff ... at last] 

Beneath us we looked down on the Little Fisher Valley, and beyond that to the Walls of Jerusalem. All around us were familiar mountains, some spattered with snow, as well as some of the many thousands of lakes and tarns that dot the wondrous Central Plateau. But nowhere to be seen was my grumpy, non-peak-bagging self. I was so glad to be up here. And you can bet Tim D was too.

Talleh Tales: Chapter One

The call came just before dawn. A call of nature? Nothing unusual about that. But this was more. In the dim light, as I stood relieving myself, the call continued, drawing me to the lake shore. A light mist lay over the waters, blurring the line between a metal grey sky and the silver grey water. 

[Dawn at Talleh Lagoons[

All was perfectly still, or almost so. I’d thought the lake to be mirror calm, but a tiny, silent ripple just below me caught my eye. Concentric rings, like those created by a small rock plopped onto the water’s surface, gently ruffled the calm. But there was no rock thrower. Rather, as the sun began rising, I could see there was the smallest movement of air, a drift of mist coming across the lake. It didn’t make waves as such, but there was sufficient movement to cause the water to lap against a barely submerged rock; to winkle ripples out of the almost inanimate water. 

This movement of air was not wind, the sort depicted coming from the puffed cheeks of a huge humanoid cloud. No, this was a mere whisper, like a breath of God hovering over the waters of creation: a picture from the opening verses of Genesis; a poetic depiction of The Beginning of all things. 

* * * 

The (lesser) genesis of this walk came from the creative mind of our friend TimO. On a walk in Tasmania’s Central Plateau back in December ’23, Tim had posed the question: what if, instead of doing a long through walk, or a circuit walk around and back, we just walked somewhere and stayed there? For days. It would be a quieter, more meditative trip. If we wanted to we could amble around, experiencing or photographing details at different times of day. If we stayed longer we’d be able to know the one place on different days, and in different conditions. We’d be aiming for deep rather than wide. 

[Cushion plants and scoparia, Central Plateau]

We’d liked the idea, and the seed had grown. But ironically when we nailed down a few optional times in February ‘24, TimO himself wasn’t available. In the end our group was whittled down to just three: Jim, Lisa and myself. Our destination was Talleh Lagoons, a place we’d “discovered”, with TimO, on the last night of our December walk. 

Two things about the proposed walk appealed to Jim. Firstly we could start early by staying overnight at the Great Lake Hotel, and secondly the campsite was only about two and a half hours from the road end. A nice cushy walk, we (quietly) thought to ourselves. 

Lisa kindly provided the transport from Hobart, and after a pleasant night at the hotel, we reached the start of the track quite early. The “cushy” walk began, and we wandered gently along the known route. This being the plateau, the going was undulating at worst, and the conditions were clear and pleasantly cool. We were soon getting views towards lakes and mountains, the former nearer than the latter. 

But two and a half hours in, we realised we were still a long way from Talleh Lagoons. We’d made the mistake of taking Jim’s exit time from our December walk, and imagining we could match that pace on today’s inward walk. We had to admit that a Jim-headed-for-home pace was unmanageable. 

We eventually arrived in time for a late lunch, and had soon settled our tents into the lakeside camp. It was as beautiful and tranquil as Jim and I remembered, and Lisa shared our enthusiasm. Scattered trees gave us some wind protection, and strategically placed rocks divided the campsite into “rooms”, as well as offering seats and wonky tables. If we had to stay in one place for a time, we could do a lot worse than here. 

[Campsite at Talleh Lagoons]

Across the lake, the southernmost of the three lagoons that make up Talleh Lagoons, we could see the track we’d descended to get here. Mid-afternoon we saw another walker coming our way. We watched as s/he eventually reached our side of the lake. As they were setting up a few hundred metres away from us, we wandered up to meet the neighbour. The walker admitted he’d been planning to come to the site we now occupied. But seeing us ensconced, he’d chosen a (less ideal) site well away from us. 

We introduced ourselves to Steve. He turned out to be an ecologist currently working for the same department I had worked in prior to my retirement. Yes, Tasmania is a smaller world than many places! For a time we talked workplace politics, before moving on to the much more interesting topic of pencil pines: his specialty, and one of my passions. He eventually set off to indulge another passion: fishing for trout in the lagoon. We wished him well, and left to get our somewhat more certain evening meal together. 

[Jim settling in at Talleh Lagoons]

With the meal over we had a quiet wander along the shore, sometimes looking back along the lake to see if Steve was having any luck. The weather was calm, but the lake surface had plenty of ripples from trout activity. Our neighbour might yet have a special dinner. We stretched and yawned and left him to it. As currawongs and honeyeaters sang farewell to the day, it was time for us to get horizontal in our own little nylon nests.

Back to the Land of a Thousand Lakes 1

[Ready to leave, at last!]

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. 

 

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. 

 

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.

 

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.

 

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.

[Walking beside Ada Lagoon]

 

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. 

 

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. 

[Easy walking among summer wildflowers]

 

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.

[Caladenia alpina orchids]

 

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. 

[Jim and TimO at Antimony Hut #5]

 

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.

 

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. 

[Durston and Hilleberg vie for attention at Silver Lake]

 

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.

 

[Relaxing at the tarp set up]

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.

Happy Places 2: Tasmania’s Central Plateau

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. 

 

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. 

[A special spot on Tasmania's Central Plateau]

 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. 

 

So … where on this cold, high, wet and wild plateau are my happy places? I’m particularly thinking of smultronställe, 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.

[A sweet end to a lakeside night]

 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 Walking With Ada and here No Lack of Lakes  All that plateau wandering makes choosing particular smultronställe 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):

 

1.     The Walls of Jerusalem

2.     Mount Rogoona

3.     Un-named Lakes and Pencil Pine Groves

 

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 Solomons Throne as my Walls of Jerusalem ‘happy place’. 

[Friends share special times on Solomons Throne]

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.

[Looking towards the Overland Track from Solomons Throne ... click to enlarge]

 

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: Mount Rogoona. 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.

[Mount Rogoona from Lake Myrtle]

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.

[Summit Views from Mount Rogoona]

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. 

 

Not once, but twice I’ve had that view ‘interrupted’ by a wedge-tailed eagle flying over. I’ve written in more detail here Eagle, 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. 

[Close encounter with the Rogoona Eagle]

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 Myrtle 1, here Myrtle 2, and here Myrtle 3.

3) If the preceding ‘happy places’ would be easy to locate, the third is deliberately vague. Un-named Lakes and Pencil Pine Groves is a category of smultronställe 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. 

 

I once started the eye-watering job of trying to count the number of lakes just on the 1:25 000 Ada 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 Ada map alone.

[So many lakes! A small part of the Central Plateau]

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. 

 

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. 

[Boots off and relaxing at a secret campsite]

 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 haven’t searched for your own version, then you have a baffling, frustrating, but ultimately sublime quest ahead of you. If you have 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.

[Does wild camping come any better than this?]