Visions in the Dark

A Mount Olympus Walk: Part 2

[The sun sets on Mt Olympus' south summit] 

Horizontal is good, very good. So too is being out of range of the flying blood-suckers. We lie in the tent reprising our day, trying to focus on the good things. Our muscles are loudly shouting the other side of the equation.

But we’re Aussies being positive: what better to do than dig deep into the book of cliches? “How’s the serenity?”, “You know you’re alive”, “How often do you get weather like this?”, “No-pain-no-gain”, “We may never pass this way again”, and so on. But mostly we just rejoice in being still and comfortable.

Before long the talk shifts to what we’re missing on this trip. Naturally we start with our respective spouses, and soon follow with our walking mate Jim. But we very quickly agree how glad we are that none of them has just gone through what we have.

More pragmatically we think to add scrub gloves and a length of rope to our “missing” list. On the ascent from Echo Point, as expected, we had come across a few cliff lines. These bands of horizontal sedimentary rock long pre-existed the dark dolerite that caps so much of this part of Tasmania. During the Jurassic era magma had forced its way up through the existing rock, cooling to form a vast dolerite layer on top of the earlier bands. The Lake St Clair glacier had subsequently gouged the valley that formed the lake, crudely cutting through this layer cake of rock.

[Tim surveys one of our "jungle" cliffs]  

What that geology meant in practical terms was that we had to negotiate a few near-vertical sections of sedimentary rock. And without any rope to help us haul our packs. Oops! We’d read that sidling a few hundred metres either side of these barriers would usually yield an easier climb. That sounded great on paper, but when you’re as hot and tired as we already were, sidling seemed a poor option. Especially when there’s was a bit of pink tape at the top of your nasty looking 10 metre “cliff” as good as telling you “this way.”

After a slightly desperate pause, our inventive substitute for rope was to use a trekking pole. I extended one pole fully and inverted it so that Tim could hook its hand loop through a clip on the pack. A couple of hernia-threatening heaves from me (above) and Tim (below) finally saw us – and our packs – on top of our first cliff.

But all that is behind us now. Ahead of us, in the morning, is a 200 metre scramble from our lake up a ridge and onto the Olympus plateau. “How hard could it be?” Tim asks, not caring to hear an answer quite yet.

[Looking towards the north summit of Olympus] 

One thing that isn’t hard is falling asleep. We’re soon purring beneath our tent’s nylon dome while the mosquitoes vent their frustration and fury on its mesh. But then something wakes us around 2:30 am. Just perhaps one us has been snoring, although men of our age might also blame their bladders. I prefer to think it’s the universe calling, because when I decide I may as well go outside for a pee, my jaw drops.

The sky is extravagantly spattered with stars. From one horizon to the other, in every direction, there are stars in the kind of profusion that only a child, or a Vincent van Gogh, might imagine. My gasps bring Tim out, and for a time we just stand there, oblivious to the mosquitoes, taking in that everynight wonder that most of us never see, thinking the night sky simply black.

My late mother-in-law painted a sky like this in her piece called “Cosmos”. Our fortunate guests can see it above the spare bed. It too is extravagant, child-like, wonderful. I’m sorry I never asked her where and when she had seen this brilliantly black vision.

["Cosmos" by Joan Goldsworthy] 

Eventually we fall asleep again, knowing that the clear night sky will soon yield to a clear hot day: our summit day.

Embraced

"Bushfire" by Joan Goldsworthy 

I used to have a debate with my mother-in-law about our mountain. Where we live Kunanyi/Mt Wellington is a looming presence. To me it is inspiring, protective, embracing. To her, while at times inspirational, it could also be oppressive.

I employ the past tense because we will no longer have that debate. Joan – Joey to most family and friends – died last Saturday, aged 77. The date was the 7^th of the 7^th – somehow typical of, and fitting for, this amazing woman.

The Monday after her death I made the mistake of going to work. I lasted past lunch, but achieved nothing useful. Grief is a work that needs space. I decided to walk the five and a half kilometres home; to get some air into my lungs, to let the motion turn my mental cogs.

A moody Kunanyi/Mt Wellington from home 

From the city the mountain felt only mildly dominant. One early navigator aptly described it as a lion couchant. But as I drew closer its presence grew. If ever it was going to feel oppressive, to become rampant, it would be today.

I thought over the last few days. Certainly Joey had been very ill for some time. But then doctors had called her family to her bedside 23 years ago, when she was not expected to last the night. The fighter that she was, she proved them wrong. She recovered, moved to Tasmania, and built a house at the back of our large block. From her studio there, she would add to her stunning body of artwork: mainly paintings in the abstract expressionist style.

"Squall" by Joan Goldsworthy 

Many of her significant later works came to feature Mt Wellington, as well as the D’Entrecasteaux Channel, and other Tasmanian landscape features. For someone who came to resemble the classic little old lady, her works were staggeringly big, hugely expressive. She was not a book to judge by its cover. From her diminutive frame, via her small hands and out of her mild, grey-pated head, came grand and dramatic works that effused emotion, compelled attention and demanded a response.

"Lavender" by Joan Goldsworthy 

It is hard to think that this little (not very) old lady is no longer with us; that she has not somehow beaten decline and death again. This time Joey had quite quickly changed from the person we knew into some kind of transitional being, pale of skin, shallow of breath, and seemingly unaware of our presence. But before the end she had one brief return, one more opening of the eyes, one final acknowledgement of her gathered children and their farewells. 

"Mt Wellington"  by Joan Goldsworthy  

Then she was gone, and only her shell remained. And how different from the living do the dead appear! Their presence drags from us the biggest, most primal of questions, tapping a deep well of emotions, regrets, hopes and fears.

On my walk home two days later, I was still pondering all of this. Looking again towards the mountain, it seemed that its presence had swelled. I was close enough to see individual trees on its forested flanks and to clearly discern single columns of the Organ Pipes. The lower hills on each side seemed to swoop closer still. To me at least, they resembled some kind of giant embrace. Not that I would want to try and score points over my late mother-in-law.

Instead I'll let one of Joey's paintings have the final word.

"Fugue" by Joan Goldsworthy