Walking the February Plains 2: Discovery

We’re lulled to sleep by a frog symphony. Urged on by their own inscrutable drives, they variously bleat, creak and croak through the night to an audience that wouldn’t normally include us. But we’re here, and what a privilege it is to have these calls dampen the din of our normal lives.

 

The morning breaks fine, with a cloud cover that harbours no threats. We have a slow brew and breakfast, chatting easily about many things before eventually turning to the topic of “where to now?” South is the general answer, with maybe a visit to Lake How and a wander to a high point a little west of there.

Tim eyes the peaks of the Overland Track

We take a meandering route to the lake, heading first to “the grandstand”. We’ve visited this high point before, and been stunned by the views. Again it doesn’t disappoint. We can clearly see almost every mountain of the Overland Track, from Cradle to Olympus. To the south-east are the high points of the Walls of Jerusalem, and north and east many more mountains, including Tim’s home peak of Mount Roland.

Reflections in a pool beside Lake How

Within an hour we’re standing by the shallow shores of Lake How. As pleasant as it is, we’re glad we didn’t tried to camp here. It’s a shallow scoop in a soggy, grassy plain, unprotected by bush or trees. We have a scroggin break and discuss our onward route. I’m pretty much in Tim’s hands, having not been this far before. We decide to climb a nearby hill and the ridge beyond it, to reach the probable high point of the Februaries, to the west of the lake.

Towards the Overland Track from the Februaries' high point

When we get there we again find exhilarating views. The deep valley of the Forth River lies between us and the Overland Track. Our equivalent latitude is well south of Barn Bluff, which we can see clearly. We stop for a very early lunch, and reminisce about walks we’ve done in these nearby mountains. For Tim it’s a significant anniversary: three years since a cardiac arrest on the side of Mount Roland almost ended his life. As we look at Barn Bluff we recall him having, in hindsight, what was probably a warning episode. When we were climbing the steep bluff, Tim was straggling behind when he would normally be leading. At the time he put it down to having given blood the day before we left. Now, by-pass and other surgery behind him, Tim is back to his best, and I’m grateful to be the one straggling behind.

 

We decide today will be a short day, and amble downslope, thinking we’ll loop back to our home lake for an early finish. But as we cross the shallow valley above Lake How, we make an odd discovery. On the valley flanks, on no obvious route, is a large rock cairn. We puzzle over it, wondering if it’s random, or linked to others. As we walk out of the valley we find another and then, a little further on, two more.

I’ve thought for some time about Frédéric Gros’ theory: that walking through such landscapes detaches us from daily trivia. I’ve certainly experienced the truth of that, but I’ve also pondered what happens to us after we’re detached.  Gros hints at us then becoming attached to that which matters. We’ve experienced some of that at our lakeside camp, and elsewhere on this walk. But I think the freed up mind is also now open to uncovering – or discovering – things which have been hidden from us by our cluttered minds.

 

One of the probable Stock Route cairns

So here we are, uncluttered by the thought of having to follow a track – there are virtually no walking tracks in the Februaries – and we discover a track! Actually it’s a route, as there’s no clear ground sign of people or animals walking this way. But Tim’s straight onto a theory. We may have discovered an old stock route: perhaps the February Plains Stock Route. If we’re right this route, pioneered by the Field family, dates from the mid 1800s. It was used to drive cattle from the Borradaile Plain through the February Plains to the Pelion Plains. Tim thinks he has seen one or two of these cairns on a previous trip, but we are now finding a continuous series of them.

Tim logs another possible cairn

We dutifully stop at each one, and Tim enters their GPS coordinates into his device. We photograph some too, noting that they’re far less elaborate, and less covered with lichen, than the cairns we followed on Ritters Track, east of the Walls of Jerusalem, last year. You can read more here: Ritters Track

 

This kind of discovery becomes quite addictive, and we describe a wider arc than we otherwise might have as we walk on to “just one more” cairn. Eventually we cut back to our home lake, but with the idea that we may try to resume the cairn search on our last day. However when we get back to our tents, Tim’s explorer blood is still bubbling. Given it seems to be a day of discovery, he’s all for trying to find signs of another 19^th century track, that of E.G. Innes. This is thought to be on the eastern edge of the Februaries, perhaps a few hundred metres from our lake. By now I’ve taken my boots off, so I only follow part of the way, and soon bow out to photograph the nearby flora. Given their subtle beauty, that will be discovery enough for me. 

Rubus gunnianus (Tasmanian alpine raspberry)

Waldheim: The Next Generation

The enchantments of Waldheim, in Tasmania’s Cradle Mountain National Park, first made our hearts wobble in 1976. Admittedly we were on our honeymoon, when hearts are supposed to beat a little faster and melt a little more readily. But we had never seen a forest as magical as that which surrounds Waldheim. Walking into its soft, green, dappled light, being surrounded by massive, moss and lichen-clad trees, we felt we’d gone through a wardrobe into Narnia.

[In Weindorfers Forest, Waldheim]

Subsequent visits with our children, and later with our ageing parents, showed that this was no one-off wobble. There truly is something magical about this “forest home” (as Waldheim translates). Gustav and Kate Weindorfer built the chalet at the edge of the forest now bearing their name in 1909. And they welcomed visitors here with the words “this is Waldheim where there is no time and nothing matters”. 

In the wider world much has changed since then, but every time we’ve come back it seems scarcely altered. So we were hoping the enchantment would be alive for our two night stay with three of our granddaughters, and their parents (our son Stuart, and his wife Elly).

[Waldheim Chalet, near Cradle Mountain]

It being Spring in the Tasmanian highlands, the weather was cold and variable. That too seems never to change. Similarly the timeless fun of sharing a tiny cabin with lively children, the five year old twins, Remy and Clover, and their almost four year old sister Isla, reminded us of times here with our own three. There’s only so much “nesting” you can do – sorting out food and drink, deciding who sleeps in which bed, and settling issues like who sits on which chair – before cabin fever strikes.

[Isla tries on my beanie]

I’d spoken with Remy about what she was hoping to see at Cradle Mountain, and wombats were high on her list. So, after a long session of getting the girls and ourselves into wet weather gear, we set off for nearby Ronny Creek. While there are no guarantees with wildlife, and a grandfather should use his words wisely, I think I’d assured the girls that they would see wombats. Thankfully it took only minutes before we’d all seen one, even if it was distant enough to look more like an animate bush.

 

But when we crossed the bridge over Ronny Creek, and wandered a short way up the track towards Wombat Pool, a classic stout wombat, straight from casting central, waddled into view. Thankfully the girls’ immediate shrieks didn’t scare the wombat away. It simply kept grazing along the grass beside the creek, right beside us. And we all kept on gazing, enthralled by this beautiful marsupial.

 

[Wombat watching beside Ronny Creek]

While the showers held off, we wandered a bit further along the creek and up the track, hoping to tire out young legs. We at least managed to tire out some older legs before we headed back to the cabin for dinner and bed. Of course it wasn’t that simple, but after a while the cabin did grow quiet, and we adults started towards bed. That fresh mountain air can take it out of you!

[Isla, Remy and Clover also delighted in water play]

The forecast for the night and the next day included the words “snow falling above 900 metres”. While Clover had mentioned that she wanted to see snow, I was very reluctant to promise we’d get any here. Of course I’d forgotten that Waldheim sits at nearly 900m. And so, to everyone’s amazement, we woke to light snow! That was both pre- and post-breakfast amusement for the girls, although that weather also meant we weren’t likely to do our planned walk around Dove Lake for a while yet.

[Snow! Clover and Remy play at Waldheim.]

 

Colouring-in books and pencils came out, morning tea was eaten, toilets were visited, and more food was eaten before the weather started to brighten. We grabbed our chance, packed lunch, and went to the bus stop at Ronny Creek. A short bus ride later and we had started the walk around Dove Lake.

 

Remy, who is very fashion conscious, was not happy with the colour of her new snow suit/waterproofs. Navy blue is NOT a colour she likes, AND it does NOT go with hot pink gumboots! But as it was all that was available in her size, she was stuck with it. And the track soon showed that snow suits of any colour, allied with gumboots, are just perfect for jumping in puddles. Although we struggled to imagine how she – or we – would keep that up for the whole 6+km, it was a good start.

[Remy delights in puddle-jumping]

[Stuart helps Isla along the track]

 

Meanwhile Clover and Isla were happy holding hands as much as hopping into puddles. The walk is so varied and interesting, even for littl’uns, that we managed to get nearly half way ‘round before stopping for lunch. After lunch we had to walk on through sleet for a while, but a few “wait till you see” hints, and some food bribes, got us all to Ballroom Forest. Another enchanted place, this kept them happy and amused for a while, as did the sight of their grandparents dancing in the “ballroom”.

[Scenes from Ballroom Forest]

After this, (nearly 4 year old) Isla began to flag, and a certain amount of parental carrying – especially by Elly – was eventually needed to get her to the track’s end. Even Remy had a little help, from Stuart this time, although Clover just kept walking. She was very much in her happy place, asking about the birds, the plants, the mosses, the lichens, and pretty much everything that we were seeing.

[Clover smiles for the camera]

[Lynne with the twins at the Dove Lake boat shed]

And so the 4^th generation of our family had shared some of the magic of Waldheim and Cradle Mountain. We were so proud of the girls for completing the walk, and for really engaging in all that was going on around them. As I watched them finish the walk, my grandfather heart wobbled afresh. Might they come to value this wondrous place – and eventually other wild places – as much as we do? Certainly an apprenticeship had begun.

[Remy's happy drawing from Waldheim]

A Long-Awaited Reunion: Part 4

Plans change, even long-settled ones. Originally we were to walk out together on day 4. Then, once we’d reached the cars, Jim, Lynne, Brita and I would farewell the four who were going home early, and we’d go on to Blue Peaks. That required driving around to Lake Mackenzie, re-packing, and getting walking again in the late afternoon for the 2-3 hour walk up to Blue Peaks.

[The track between Pelion and our cars] 

That all sounded good on paper, and looked very do-able on the map. But there were two flies in the ointment. Firstly the forecast for the days ahead included quite a bit of rain. Secondly Lynne’s knee/hamstring issue was still of concern. Jim and I had independently been pondering the dilemma: how could we help Brita to make the most of her limited time in Tasmania, while not further damaging Lynne’s knee? Amazingly we had come up with the same possible solution. Merran and Tim D had some extra accommodation, a cottage next to their house in Sheffield, and we hoped we might prevail upon them to use it for two nights. We’d be able to visit Cradle Mountain on the day in between.

[An unidentified wildflower brightened up the walk out] 

Jim and I laughed when we finally had a quiet little tête-à-tête about the issue, and discovered we’d had the same idea. (I guess that happens when you’ve been friends for nearly 40 years.) We put it to Tim D and Merran, and they were more than happy for us to use the cottage. We checked it with Lynne and Brita, who were happy to go along with the new plan. Problem solved, the only thorny issue was how to nurse Lynne through the potentially arduous walk out to the car. To allow the maximum time for her to walk as slowly as she needed, we were all up very early. And Lynne left before the rest of us, as she didn’t want to slow anyone down.

That seemed wise to me, although I expected I’d catch her within the hour. Instead the kilometres went by: buttongrass became forest; forest gave way to heathland. We toiled through rocky sections, then walked some more through scrubby forest. We were now walking in gender groups, and we boys were having a fascinating theological discussion, as you do between three Christians and a Buddhist. It didn’t slow us down at all, but however fast we walked, there was no sign of Lynne.

To say we didn’t see her again until the cars would be a slight exaggeration. But we only caught up with her when she stopped for a scroggin break, and to wait for the rest of us. We weren’t walking slowly. Lynne was simply walking like a new person: fluently, and without knee pain.

[The track was rough and cryptic in a few places] 

Still, it was a long and tiring walk out. On the way in to Pelion we’d taken more than 6 hours, and walking out still took us well over 4 hours. Yet there was elation at getting back to the cars before lunchtime. I gave Lynne a congratulatory hug, and we both thanked Brita for her great work on Lynne’s hamstring. She just deflected the thanks, and said it was all to do with Lynne’s “super tough body”. Lynne looked both surprised and delighted with the compliment.

Once we’d stowed our gear back in the cars, the prospect of getting out to a hot lunch before too long was uppermost in our minds. Apart from anything else, we had to farewell Libby and TimO, who were leaving us once we’d had that café lunch. We were aiming for Mole Creek pub, but decided to stop and try Earthwater Café, a few km short of Mole Creek. Changing plans seemed to be going well for us today: it proved a fabulous find. We sat outside, partly so other diners didn’t have to share our ripe bushwalking odour. Once we’d pulled a couple of tables together beneath some beautiful trees, we settled down to the kind of meal that’s especially welcome after time in the bush.

[Our lunch stop at Earthwater Cafe] 

Sooner than we hoped, but later than they needed to, TimO and Libby departed for the south. The remaining six of us were going to Sheffield, and were very thankful that we weren’t having to hoist packs and walk again that day. We were even more thankful we’d have actual beds, with real mattresses, for the next few nights. Call us soft, we don’t care!

There was one other major item on Brita’s “must see” list. Despite having seen wallabies, pademelons, eagles, cockatoos and dozens of other creatures that aren’t to be found in Austria – and most of New Zealand – we had not been able to find a wombat. That gave us a focus for our day at Cradle Mountain. But that was tomorrow, tonight we needed to find food, while leaving Tim and Merran to settle in and get ready for work tomorrow. We took a dining short-cut, deciding to eat what we still had in our packs. Yes, we had catered for more nights out, but the prospect of more dehydrated food wasn’t hugely enticing. A visit to the pub for a pre-dinner drink took the edge off our disappointment, and a little wine with dinner helped wash it down happily.

[Cradle Mountain reflected in Dove Lake] 

The forecast for our Cradle Mountain day was not great, although the amount of rain predicted seemed to diminish by the hour (which was how often we checked it). By the time we left Sheffield the showers had stopped. And when we got to the new visitor centre at Cradle Valley, the cloud had lifted off Cradle itself. The plan to walk the Dove Lake Loop Track wasn’t looking so daft after all. Dove Lake itself was very busy, as this honey-pot has been for many years now. But once we walked beyond Glacier Rock, just a few hundred metres from the carpark, the foot traffic dropped significantly. As we ambled closer to Cradle, we showed Brita some more of the kind of rainforest she had come to love in both Tasmania and New Zealand. 

[Rainforest on the Dove Lake Loop Track] 

We talked about the common origins of those forests in ancient Gondwana. This kinship even goes down to the kinds of fungi found in both forests. We pointed out some myrtle orange fungi (Cyttaria gunnii), which are very closely related to Cyttaria species found on the beech trees of both New Zealand and Patagonia, even down to their resemblance to golf balls.

[Myrtle orange fungi in myrtle beech trees] 

After dipping beneath Cradle itself, the track took us around to yet more rainforest, the wonderful Ballroom Forest. But there was an elephant in the ballroom. Or more correctly, a large, rotund, furry marsupial (and no, I’m not referring to Jim) was missing from the ballroom. We weren’t likely to see wombats here, so we walked quite quickly back to Dove Lake. The one sure-fire place to see wombats in the wild was Ronny Creek, so we caught a shuttle bus from Dove Lake and got off at Ronny Creek.

[Jim in Ballroom Forest] 

Within a few minutes we were meeting other walkers coming towards us with smiles on their faces. Yes, there were wombats here! I’d like to say we stopped, snapped a few quick photos, and quickly turned for home, where we had a date to eat home-made pizza with Merran and Tim. But no, this was Brita’s new happy place. 

[Brita's happy place: watching wombats near Ronny Creek] 

She took a hundred photos of distant wombats. Then a couple of them started wandering down towards the track. After she took another hundred closer photos, and became a little annoyed with the noisy, impatient and pushy behaviour of some other observers, we thought Brita was finished. 

[Wombat approaching!] 

But then one wombat climbed onto, and over, the boardwalk, close enough for Brita to touch it (which she knew not to). She had an extended period of wombat bliss – while we basked in its vicarious glow – before we signalled it was time to head back to the shuttle bus stop. Brita belatedly joined us – after a deal of waving and calling – only moments before the bus pulled out. But somehow not even that was going to stop her smile!

Back in Sheffield, we hunted for pizza toppings, the deal being that Tim would make the bases, and we would supply, and put on, the toppings. We also wanted to search out some little thank-yous for our Sheffield hosts. That done, we went “home” again, and freshened up for dinner. 

[Master chef Tim. Who wants some pizza?] 

[Not your typical bushwalking food. Thanks Tim!] 

Tim excelled himself, as usual, with three courses of pizza: entrée (pizza bianca); main course (many and varied) and dessert pizzas. We supplied the wine, and sat back to watch the setting sun painting the clouds around Mount Roland. It was a magical end to a very special few days together. We met no resistance from Brita when we suggested we must do it all again. But perhaps we might not wait eleven years this time!

[... as the sun sinks slowly over Mt Roland.] 

Overlandish Part 3: "Rescued"

“Worse than yesterday” never came. Instead we wake to another dreich, damp Waterfall Valley day. Barn Bluff is playing hide and seek with us, as fresh clouds swirl around the heights, dropping a few careless showers. It’s what you’d expect of winter on the Overland Track, really. As opposed to what we’d experienced, and what had been forecast.

[Not much visibility: a dreich day] 

Some of our hut mates are keen to keep walking south, and face whatever befalls them. They include Melbourne-based Lee, and German couple Manuel and Julia. And suddenly, over breakfast, Mick tells us it includes him too.

We’re not greatly surprised. He’s got friends coming in to meet him at the other end of the Overland Track. They plan to then walk back into Pine Valley. Rather than have to rearrange everything, it’s simplest if Mick sticks to the original plan. And this way, hopefully, he’ll also achieve his first complete Overland Track trip.

We feel strangely parental farewelling Mick, first foisting a tent and then a personal locator beacon on him, “just in case”. I resist checking whether he’s got a hanky. And then we walk our separate ways, Mick and friends to the south, ourselves to the north.

[Ian on the ascent out of Waterfall Valley] 

Leaving the valley, we ascend into the cloud that licks the rim of Bluff Cirque. It is moist though not rainy, and we debate whether rain gear is necessary. Despite feeling like a cooked lobster, I exercise the precautionary principle and leave mine on.

[Cloud walking along Bluff Cirque] 

We walk through thinning cloud most of the way back, catching occasional glimpses of valleys and mountains, and even the odd patch of blue sky. The track is still wet, or what we would once have called wet. In comparison with our walk in, it’s luxurious. Kitchen Hut feels that way too. When the sun threatens to break through, we even consider digging out our sunglasses.

[Walking out of the cloud near Cradle Mt] 

By the time we’re approaching Marions Lookout, we’re getting real views again. And when we get mobile reception and can ring Tim D., the weather is as cheerful as his news. He’s on target to meet us at Ronny Creek around 2pm.

[Back safe, at Ronny Creek] 

I’m not sure Tim is used to the kind of reception we give him, unless it’s from his dog. And then, like a pack of dogs, we’re busy exchanging news, talking nineteen to the dozen. We quickly find out how serious and widespread “our” weather event has been. Tim tells us three people are missing, presumed drowned, in the floods. And hundreds of cattle have been washed away, as towns like Latrobe and Longford have gone under.

[Tim our "rescuer", between Ian and Larry] 

On the drive down to Sheffield, where Tim and Merran have kindly offered us a bed for the night, we start to see the flood damage firsthand. We detour around some flooded sections; see numerous fallen trees; and ease past sections where road verges have slumped seriously. Our experience has been mild in comparison, though we soon find that Facebook has told it otherwise. News of our “rescue” from the flooded Overland Track has already hit our fb feed. It seems many people have been quite worried about us, so we quickly reassure them.

Our “rescue” gets very fancy when, after a blissfully hot shower, Tim and Merran break out cheese and wine as a pre-dinner treat. And it feels complete when Tim fires up his pizza oven, and he and Merran deliver an abundance of perfect home-made treats. Eventually, when we can’t eat another thing, and all our tales have been told (a few times), we retire, each to his own soft bed. And if that isn’t bliss enough, there is no snoring to be heard!

  

* * *

Postcript: What became of Mick?

The day he left us Mick did an almost 7 hour day, walking past Windermere and on to New Pelion Hut. He’d been very concerned about potential flooding at Frog Flats. But, he says, “I was so tired I walked straight through the area without even realising it.”

[Mick contemplates going on: old Waterfall Valley Hut] 

At New Pelion he caught up with Lee, and reunited him with the torch he’d left in Waterfall Valley Hut. Mick and Lee then walked on together over Pelion Gap to Kia Ora, choosing not to climb Mt Ossa in cloudy, showery conditions. The highlight of the next day was the “incredible sight” of a flooded upper Mersey River thundering over D’Alton, Fergusson and Hartnett Falls.

Mick’s adventures didn’t end at Narcissus, as they do for most Overland Track walkers. Instead he picked up a resupply that had been ferried in by friends. Together they headed back up to Pine Valley, along with Lee, Manuel, Julia and other walkers he’d met on the main track.

To top it all off it snowed at Pine Valley, with three inches at the hut, and nearly double that up on the Labyrinth. He had what he described as “a fantastic day of wandering in my favourite winter wonderland”.

Eventually even heroes have to come home, and Mick did so with “lots of mixed feelings. I dawdled behind the others for most of (the walk out). I wasn’t looking forward to ending what had been a pretty amazing 9 days…”.

There’s always next time Mick!

Overlandish Part 2: Treading Water

After our deluge day on the Overland Track, Waterfall Valley Hut feels like a five star resort. Yes, fifteen soaked walkers and their wet gear squeezed into a small hut with one tiny gas heater would normally rate a little lower than that. It’s just that it’s surprising how cheerful a hut can become when its occupants make an effort to be sociable.

Once our saturated gear is dispensed with – some to the wet room, some to the racks around the heater – we start chatting. We begin with the usual: “Where are you from? Which way are you walking? What about this weather!?”, and soon enough we’re nattering like old friends. One group even moves up to the top bunk so our lot can all fit on the easier-to-exit bottom bunk. (I don’t stop to ask if this is a concession to our age!)

[Getting to know the neighbours: Waterfall Valley Hut (photo: Ian Grant)] 

When I brew up hot drinks, it takes both soup and coffee before I start to feel warm. It hasn’t really been cold, but when you’re soaked, 7 degrees and strong winds can chill you well enough. Card games, more chatter and some sharing of pre-dinner treats are soon warming up the social side of things too.

The south-north walkers have hair-raising tales of walking from Windermere, including knee deep water as they entered this valley. Outside it’s still raining, and it keeps raining most of the night. While that helps to drown out the sound of snoring, it does nothing for our confidence about walking tomorrow. Larry tells us he has a little radio, so he’ll check the 6am forecast.

Some of our hut mates are walking out to Cradle regardless. So the next day they’re up early, and chatting about the weather with Larry. From my warm bag I’m pretty sure I hear words like “damaging winds”, “major flood warnings”, “heavy rain”. But by the time I get to look outside, it’s just grey and showery, and the breeze seems almost gentle.

But we’ve got decisions to make, so over breakfast we ask Larry for his full weather report. Despite the look of things out the hut window, the report is dire. He sums it up for us. “Sounds like today will be worse than yesterday, and it’ll still be wet for most of the week.” Larry tops it off by showing us the barometer on his watch. Apart from elevating his gear freak status, it shows a downward trend in barometric pressure.

[Not more rain? An impromptu creek and Barn Bluff]  

After breakfast I do a circuit of the hut’s exterior. How aptly named is this valley!? There are waterfalls everywhere, near and far and in places I’ve never seen them. There’s even a creek flowing over the grass beside the hut and beneath the water tanks.

Further off I can just make out the imposing Barn Bluff. Today, at this angle, the barn is more a witch’s hat. Its cloudy shroud adds to the spell. Cascades pour from its every cliff, and I wonder what toil and trouble she is brewing. As Tasmania’s third highest peak, sitting high above “The Reserve”, this mountain is in a position to gather any weather that comes her way. The words “worse than yesterday” are the clincher for me. Certainly we won’t be walking on – or back – today. If yesterday was about literally treading water, today we’ll only do it metaphorically.

[A shrouded Barn Bluff from Waterfall Valley] 

Back in the hut we discuss our options. If we’re delayed a day, and have to do a double-length catchup day in such conditions, we’re in for a strenuous and uncomfortable week. Ian has recovered perfectly well from yesterday’s ordeal, but is very certain he doesn’t want more of the same. Larry and I tend to agree, while Mick is prevaricating. He, after all, is the only one of our group who hasn’t walked the Overland Track before.

When one of the exiting group offers to get a message to our friend Tim D. when they get to Cradle, our decision is made. We’ll stay another night here, then turn back to Cradle and hope to meet Tim. He’s planned to come up the Arm River Track to join us on the track that day anyway, so we’re hoping he won’t object to a pickup at Cradle instead.

Decision made, note to Tim written, walkers farewelled and breakfast cleaned up, we settle down for a quiet day in the hut. On queue the showers decrease, the wind fades to nothing, and Barn Bluff makes a semi-convincing cloud-free appearance. We decide we may as well explore the valley while we can, before the “worse than yesterday” decides to show up.

[Peekaboo! Barn Bluff cloud free] 

It’s showering lightly as we make our way towards the lower cliff line that holds the largest waterfalls. I’ve been coming to this valley for over 30 years, but I’ve never seen or heard it like this. Every minor declivity holds a creek, and the actual creeks are showing profound contempt for their banks. We slosh and scrub bash our way towards the nearest edge. While we can’t easily get close to the larger falls, we’re awestruck enough by the small ones.

 [A fraction of the scene: Waterfall Valley]

I ease to the edge of one torrent to take a short video (see below*), thinking in passing that if I fell into the water it would be goodnight-nurse! The normally small creek is a roaring maelstrom careening towards an 80m cliff. With so many waterfalls across a broad landscape it’s difficult to photograph the scene. But just standing there slack-jawed seems a very appropriate response.

[Ian and Mick take in Waterfall Valley] 

Our exercise for the day done, we settle back into the hut for more food and conversation. Those who have walked on have been replaced by a new lot of walkers, so there are more water-endurance tales to catch up on. We ask one who’s come in from the south what the bridge over the Forth River at Frog Flats was like. His simple reply “What bridge?” raises our eyebrows. It seems the whole track through Frog Flats had been thigh deep in water, and he hadn’t even noticed a bridge. It makes us profoundly glad that we’re only treading metaphorical water here in our five star hut.

[* if the video doesn't work on your mobile device, please try a desktop or laptop]