Rocking Cradle 2: A Bluebird Day

The evening is full of exotic sounds and smells. There’s the tish and paff of hail and snow on the roof, and the pop and sizzle of cooking, its smoky whiff blending with that indefinable essence-of-wet-walker smell. But most surprising of all is the whirr of a solar powered extractor fan, doing its best to remove those same whiffs.

By the time we’ve finished dining, the snow showers have cleared and the wind has withered. The hut thermometer tells us it’s already below zero. I shrug on my down jacket and step out for some star gazing. A half moon keeps the stars quiet, but shows up the brilliance of the snowy bush. Apart from the low gurgle of a nearby creek, it is breathtakingly quiet and still.

[A very promising start to the day!] 

I wake early, keen to see if dawn is as clear. Above the dark slope of the land, the sky grades from soft ochre through pale golds into deepening shades of blue. Low in the blue Venus is a bright, imperfect gem. There’s not the hint of a cloud.

As we set of it is still very cold. We’re careful on the steps leading down to the Horse Track. Every surface is frozen, the snow crusted with fresh ice, the wet surfaces now solid and slick. We cross the gurgling creek, past bushes festooned with icicles, and climb towards Crater Peak. Where yesterday we’d been postholing, we’re now crunching across the surface.

[Tim crosses the creek near our hut] 

I give Lynne a go of my snowshoes, and she takes to them immediately. She heads up the hill ahead of us, passing yesterday’s tobogganing slope, and makes for the dark bump of Crater Peak. The sky above is now an impossible blue, contrasting starkly with the monochrome landscape.

[Lynne takes off on the snowshoes] 

We soon find it’s not the snow that will slow us down up here. Many sections of the old corduroy track are covered with ice, the normally sodden surface now a frozen cascade. Without cleats it’s almost impossible not to slip on the track, so we fan out to travel off-track. And now we dawdle, as much because the frozen world is full of small wonders – a rimed bush here; a frozen pool there – as for reasons of care and safety.

[The frozen corduroy track] 

We’re exchanging frequent grins. I’ve heard talk of bluebird days* a few times this winter, and now we’re definitely walking through one. By unspoken agreement we spread out and immerse ourselves in this day. We’re walking in a winter wonderland, too wrapt to be concerned about cliches!

We pause atop Crater Peak, a pile of rock slightly higher than the surrounding plateau, and have a quick snack. We take dozens of photos, finding it hard to stop. Everywhere you point your camera the scene is stunning. Yet it gets better. We now leave the Horse Track, aiming to wander cross-country, close to the rim of the plateau, and enter an extensive field of snow.

[Happy trampers on Crater Peak] 

Lynne hands the snowshoes back, and I take a few minutes to strap them on. But the snow is such easy going for the others that I struggle to catch up, even with my “floats”. As we walk up slope, the bold block of Cradle Mountain, its face thickly daubed with snow, grows larger before us. We see only one set of ski prints in the otherwise virgin snow.

I’ve been up here many times in snow, and have climbed a snowy Cradle Mt a few times. But I have never seen this much snow on the Cradle Plateau. A couple of cornices must be at least three metres deep. As we make for the rim, Lynne and Merran can’t resist having another bum slide down a slope. I content myself with filming the event.

[The snowfield between Crater Pk & Cradle Mt] 

We have a long and lazy lunch on a knoll overlooking Crater Lake. Its surface scintillates, reflecting back the bright sun. We think we can make out small ice floes on the lake. Their see-through shapes drift and shimmy down the sparkling lake, driven by gently persistent breezes. That’s presumably cold air draining off the plateau, because here on the heights there’s barely a puff of air.

[Our lunch spot, high above Crater Lake] 

After we’ve finished lunch we linger at this superb vantage point. It’s even balmy enough for us to stretch out for a while. Soon enough we’ll need to start our descent, but for now we just want to remain immersed in this best of mountain days.

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* the term is used by skiers – and others – to refer to a clear, calm day after snow.

Under Gustav’s Spell

The talk will begin with words about Gustav Weindorfer. It will celebrate his century old vision proclaimed Moses-like, arms outstretched, from the top of Tasmania's Cradle Mountain.

"This must be a national park for the people for all time."

Within two years the Austrian, by then in his mid-thirties, had built Waldheim – “forest home” in English – a guest house fit for his vision. The building, or a close replica of it, fashioned from the forest’s King Billy pines, still sits at the edge of a forest that now bears Weindorfer’s name.

And I sit in a hut, just a stone’s throw west of Waldheim, preparing a talk about how we might care for wild places. I am pondering the kind of life that “Dorfer”, his wife Kate, and their many friends and guests experienced here. While we have driven to the door in under two hours from Launceston, on their early trips they averaged less than two miles per hour from the nearest road at Moina. Weindorfer long lobbied successive governments to build a road in, but had very limited success.

Waldheim, Cradle Mountain, Tasmania 

It is spring, so there is snow. It falls on and off all day, by turns soft and slow; angular and sharp. We choose to walk regardless. Pulling rain hoods tight against the wind-driven snow, we trudge, huff and crunch our way up to Crater Lake.

In the lee of the hills the wind drops, the showers abate, and we lower our hoods in time to enjoy the waterfalls and forest of Crater Creek. The fagus has begun budding, and we smile at its disregard of the snow. We spend a long while taking photographs, agreeing that we have no schedule to keep. Is this what Gustav meant when he welcomed people here with the words “this is Waldheim where there is no time and nothing matters”?

Spring thaw and fagus buds near Crater Lake 

By the time we have climbed close to Crater Lake it is snowing steadily, softly. I wonder how many south-westerly squalls it took for ice-age snow to accumulate here and gouge out the deep crater – really a cirque – that is now filled by Crater Lake. But this is not the day to stay and ponder. With visibility down to fifty metres, we cinch our hoods tight and turn back into the cross-fire of a spectacular flurry.

Snow flurries at Crater Lake, Tasmania 

Gustav’s beloved Kate died tragically young in 1916. Waldheim had been her vision as much as his. Indeed she had purchased the land on which it was built. After Kate’s death he chose to take up permanent residence here. Although he was considered a hermit by casual visitors, “Dorfer” was anything but. He thrived on hosting others and showing them this special place. But with no road, and visitors concentrated in the warmer months, he became intensely lonely, especially when snow cut off access. He must have longed for spring and the return of warmer weather and more frequent company.

And I wonder, really, how homely this wet forest could ever have been. To me its soft, green-mantled, dappled light is achingly beautiful. But it is also shady, cold and waterlogged. Even with the sun shining, the dripping is incessant, and as I write the cold draughts finger their way through gaps in the cabin.

In Weindorfers Forest near Waldheim 

Clothes washing, in fact any sort of ablutions, must have required a degree of fortitude. Just beside Waldheim, astride a fast-flowing creek, we find the old bath house. A wooden sluice provided it with fresh – VERY fresh – water. With snow lying on the ground, I know I would have been very tempted to put off bath-time!

All night snow slumps from the roof, a careless intruder stumbling into our silence. It is cold. But morning brings the gift of a cloudless blue sky. We drive to Dove Lake after breakfast to see Gustav’s Cradle covered in snow. Words are few – but on a day like this it would be a hard heart that failed to share Weindorfer’s dream.

Cradle Mountain above Dove Lake, Tasmania 

On the drive back I look across Ronny Creek towards Waldheim. The “forest home” is at the edge of a narrow wedge of wet forest dominated by King Billy pine and myrtle-beech. But all around is eucalypt woodland and buttongrass moorland. Gustav’s century old abode suddenly looks small, fragile, susceptible to changes that are reaching even to this haven.

Am I under some kind of spell to believe that the on-going preservation of such wild places is still possible? As we drive away a pair of black currawongs calls sharp and hard across the valley, as they have for long ages. Spell or not, I hear it as a ringing endorsement of Gustav’s vision.