[part 10 of a 15 part series describing an ascent of Tasmania's Federation Peak]
10) The Direct Ascent
Direct Ascent of Federation Peak, Thursday February 7th, 1991
The tower of Federation is made of quartzite, an ancient sedimentary rock that’s been baked and tilted and contorted into a quartz-rich metamorphic marvel. Tough, grey, and shot through with cross veins and clots of pure white quartz, walkers and climbers find it strong but abrasive. I’d met this rasping quality first hand during six days of scrambling in the nearby Western Arthur Range. On that trip my white-gold wedding band was given a newly-brushed look, albeit a shoddy one.
The Direct Ascent zigzags up near-vertical quartzite by way of fissures and minor gullies that have been gouged and plucked out of by the action of ice. There has been minimal human reshaping of the hard-to-mark rock, and this combines with the numerous dead-end fissures and false leads to make route finding difficult. Not all of the ice action dates back to the Ice Ages. Ice and snow can hit this peak at any time of the year. Its closeness to the Southern Ocean places it in the direct path of cool and moist air, which rises and cools further on meeting these obstacles. Hail, sleet and snow often result.
But today the wind is fetching in from further afield, and for the moment it’s mild and dry. And although we can hear and feel it, Jim’s wind prediction is so far holding out. Other faces of the peak are bearing the brunt, with only flurries ruffling this section. That’s just as well, because we’re having enough difficulty finding foot and hand holds and a tenable route without also being buffeted by wind. Jim is behind me as I lead up the first gully or two, but the pair of us are soon at a loss for a way ahead. Bill and the Doc join us and we each scan the rock wall for the route. The other three wait nervously below us, possibly losing what little confidence we may have managed to instill into them.
For rock climbers there are sure to be other options here, but for bushwalkers like us, there’s only the one ascent route. We keep searching for it, our anxiety heading in the direction of panic. Then Bill calls out that he’s seen a cairn above him. He checks it out, then calls us up. We’ve been looking straight above us, but Bill has found that the route traverses to the right, crossing a horribly steep bulge of rock before again disappearing upwards.
We decide to deploy our length of rope. I suspect this is more about allaying the fears of the inexperienced – and possibly justifying Jim bothering to bring it – than it’s about safety. None of us really knows about knots or belaying, and Bill jokes that he thought a karabiner was a West Indian head covering. Yes, in my twenties I had done a little climbing, and had even abseiled down the huge vertical cliffs on Sydney Harbour’s North Head. But that was more about blind trust than skill. Also it involved going down not up, and it was with an experienced leader/climber.
Anyway, whatever the shortcomings of our strategy, we get out the rope and Bill takes it up to look for something suitable to secure it to. Jim and I follow, choosing to ignore the rope and trust the rock. I’m concentrating too much on my own climbing to notice whether anyone actually uses the so-called safety line. There’s one particular spot which is a bit of stretch for me, but which Jim, a shorter man, finds quite difficult. After a long nervous look at it, I reach across a shoulder of rock. It offers scant handholds. Before I have any sense of security for my hands I have to extend one foot across and down in search of what can only be described as a tenuous foothold. Jim follows close behind, stabbing his right foot out two or three times and making some inarticulate semi-panic noises before I reach back and physically guide it into the appropriate spot. Margaret comes up behind in time to support his other foot, and with a final grunt he wobbles across to my side. We shuffle along far enough for Marg to follow. I notice we’re all breathing shallowly, quickly, but we press on after Bill before panic can freeze us to this particularly inhospitable spot. Indecision, even thinking itself, seem to be enemies here.
But I also start to find a certain rhythm to ascending, and that it pays to move with that. Hand up, grip, breathe, heave, foot up, test, rest, breathe, push off, reach again. Under this regime I’m surprised to find fear and uncertainty settling like compliant dogs. While they’re sleeping, I keep climbing until I hear an unexpected whoop of joy from Bill. He’s just out of view over a small rise, but he must have got a view of the top. We heave up over the last knob to see a grinning, wind-blown Bill gesturing wildly towards the top. It looks to be only an easy 100 metres away.
Showing posts with label Direct Ascent. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Direct Ascent. Show all posts
Thursday, 23 July 2009
Federation Peak - Part 9
[part 9 of a 15 part series describing an ascent of Tasmania's Federation Peak]
9) On the Southern Traverse
Bechervaise to the Direct Ascent, Thursday February 7th, 1991
It’s light at last. I seem to have been awake all night, or at least since a strong wind blew up in the early hours. It had fair roared in from the nor’ west; whistling through the stony turrets above us; tearing through the trees around us. The campsite may be sheltered from the worst of it, but the tents have been buffeted nonetheless. The aeolian clamour matches my mood. Wilderness is supposed to be about inner peace, or so the posters and calendars tell me. Instead I feel like screaming, or running and hiding. I miss Lynne and the children, and wish I could just be home with them. Is it really supposed to be like this? I thought the mountain itself was hard enough; must we also contend with gales, fatigue and lack of sleep?
I keep the whinges inside, just, and rise to greet the group. They don’t appear to have faired any better in the sleep stakes. Only the Doc seems chirpy, although it could be good old English fatalism. Peter and Natalie are very quiet, both searching their breakfast bowls for courage. Jim and Bill are also looking serious. As I join them for a cuppa, they’re talking wind. Jim’s compass tells him it might not be so bad on the mountain’s climbing side, which is exposed to the south more than the north and west. I’m not sure he’s convinced himself, let alone the rest of us. But we’ve come this far, and the only way to find out is to go up and look.
Feeling more focussed, I surprise everyone by being the first one ready to go. Only a couple of Ray’s party are up by the time we’ve all got our day-packs on. Joe, young and full of beans, tells us it’s a piece of cake. We add a large grain of salt to his cake, but we know that he means to encourage us.
A combination of adrenalin and anxiety carries us off the plateau and onto the rockier ground towards the summit block. We’re out of the wind and making good headway on steep ground when I turn to find Jim and Bill stopped well back and in deep discussion. Arms are waving and fingers pointing. The Doc and I wait, continuing a conversation begun two days earlier. Bill finally joins us to explain the delay. He’s redder than usual, ‘though not from exertion. It seems he’s forgotten the rope, which we’d agreed we’d take at least as a safety line. Jim has gone back for it – a delay of perhaps 30 minutes. We gently chide Bill with words like “stupid bastard” and “gormless eegit”. He grins and we all laugh, tension released. Soon enough Jim rejoins us, an obvious length of rope protruding from his small day pack. He gives Bill a look of mock anger, sighs and takes a painfully exaggerated swig from his water bottle, feigning exhaustion. Point made, Jim walks on and we follow.
The mountain now looms like a great contorted castle. Were it one, we’d guess we’re over the moat, with only the wall before us and nowhere to go but up. That impression is soon corrected. A steep rocky climb leads to an even steeper and quite sudden drop. Rob Valentine had mentioned this in his briefing, but we hadn’t pictured so dramatic a descent when we were supposed to be ascending. We scramble down, face outwards until the slope becomes serious enough to turn us over. We then have to chimney down the slippery quartzite chute facing inwards like proper rock climbers. It should be nerve-wracking, but somehow concentrating on the immediate issue of foot and hand holds is a fine distraction.
Once down we pause to look at the map. We figure we must now be on the Southern Traverse proper, a steep, airy sidle around the southern “wall” of Fedder. This route eventually meets up with the track that comes in from Thwaites Plateau. It may have a name, and it may be a “track”, but there is precious little relief in that. We choose every foot and hand hold carefully as the track steeples now roughly up, now sharply down. We’re very much aware of a vast airy space on our left, with varying but vertiginous views of cliff, forest and lake. Most of the time we only take in the view when we’re stopped and certain of our footing. Under the circumstances admiring the scenery has to be optional, but I can’t help being impressed by the sheer vertical beauty of it all. This is real mountain country, and the danger only increases its fierce beauty.
If you’re not leading, the best walking tactic here is to watch and learn from the person in front. But at this point that’s me, so I’m the one nervously scanning the way ahead not only for good footing, but for signs of the track. Those might be rock cairns, or wear marks or muddy patches. In my anxiety not to miss the turn-off that marks the Direct Ascent, I move very slowly. But in the end there is no missing it. While one track continues west around the tower of Federation, a cairn marks a track that leads straight up. I wait for the others to confirm what I’m already sure about. Here beginneth the Direct Ascent!
9) On the Southern Traverse
Bechervaise to the Direct Ascent, Thursday February 7th, 1991
It’s light at last. I seem to have been awake all night, or at least since a strong wind blew up in the early hours. It had fair roared in from the nor’ west; whistling through the stony turrets above us; tearing through the trees around us. The campsite may be sheltered from the worst of it, but the tents have been buffeted nonetheless. The aeolian clamour matches my mood. Wilderness is supposed to be about inner peace, or so the posters and calendars tell me. Instead I feel like screaming, or running and hiding. I miss Lynne and the children, and wish I could just be home with them. Is it really supposed to be like this? I thought the mountain itself was hard enough; must we also contend with gales, fatigue and lack of sleep?
I keep the whinges inside, just, and rise to greet the group. They don’t appear to have faired any better in the sleep stakes. Only the Doc seems chirpy, although it could be good old English fatalism. Peter and Natalie are very quiet, both searching their breakfast bowls for courage. Jim and Bill are also looking serious. As I join them for a cuppa, they’re talking wind. Jim’s compass tells him it might not be so bad on the mountain’s climbing side, which is exposed to the south more than the north and west. I’m not sure he’s convinced himself, let alone the rest of us. But we’ve come this far, and the only way to find out is to go up and look.
Feeling more focussed, I surprise everyone by being the first one ready to go. Only a couple of Ray’s party are up by the time we’ve all got our day-packs on. Joe, young and full of beans, tells us it’s a piece of cake. We add a large grain of salt to his cake, but we know that he means to encourage us.
A combination of adrenalin and anxiety carries us off the plateau and onto the rockier ground towards the summit block. We’re out of the wind and making good headway on steep ground when I turn to find Jim and Bill stopped well back and in deep discussion. Arms are waving and fingers pointing. The Doc and I wait, continuing a conversation begun two days earlier. Bill finally joins us to explain the delay. He’s redder than usual, ‘though not from exertion. It seems he’s forgotten the rope, which we’d agreed we’d take at least as a safety line. Jim has gone back for it – a delay of perhaps 30 minutes. We gently chide Bill with words like “stupid bastard” and “gormless eegit”. He grins and we all laugh, tension released. Soon enough Jim rejoins us, an obvious length of rope protruding from his small day pack. He gives Bill a look of mock anger, sighs and takes a painfully exaggerated swig from his water bottle, feigning exhaustion. Point made, Jim walks on and we follow.
The mountain now looms like a great contorted castle. Were it one, we’d guess we’re over the moat, with only the wall before us and nowhere to go but up. That impression is soon corrected. A steep rocky climb leads to an even steeper and quite sudden drop. Rob Valentine had mentioned this in his briefing, but we hadn’t pictured so dramatic a descent when we were supposed to be ascending. We scramble down, face outwards until the slope becomes serious enough to turn us over. We then have to chimney down the slippery quartzite chute facing inwards like proper rock climbers. It should be nerve-wracking, but somehow concentrating on the immediate issue of foot and hand holds is a fine distraction.
Once down we pause to look at the map. We figure we must now be on the Southern Traverse proper, a steep, airy sidle around the southern “wall” of Fedder. This route eventually meets up with the track that comes in from Thwaites Plateau. It may have a name, and it may be a “track”, but there is precious little relief in that. We choose every foot and hand hold carefully as the track steeples now roughly up, now sharply down. We’re very much aware of a vast airy space on our left, with varying but vertiginous views of cliff, forest and lake. Most of the time we only take in the view when we’re stopped and certain of our footing. Under the circumstances admiring the scenery has to be optional, but I can’t help being impressed by the sheer vertical beauty of it all. This is real mountain country, and the danger only increases its fierce beauty.
If you’re not leading, the best walking tactic here is to watch and learn from the person in front. But at this point that’s me, so I’m the one nervously scanning the way ahead not only for good footing, but for signs of the track. Those might be rock cairns, or wear marks or muddy patches. In my anxiety not to miss the turn-off that marks the Direct Ascent, I move very slowly. But in the end there is no missing it. While one track continues west around the tower of Federation, a cairn marks a track that leads straight up. I wait for the others to confirm what I’m already sure about. Here beginneth the Direct Ascent!
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