Cloud From Both Sides: Part 3

Lake Judd on a perfect morning

It was clear all night. That much I knew from the profound cold that settled over the lake, descended from the treetops, and crept into my tent. I pulled my beanie lower and snuggled into my winter-weight sleeping bag, atop my winter-weight sleeping mat. Good choices, I thought to myself, before nodding off again. Until the birds gently broke the silence of another perfect morning: our final one here.

Lake Judd at the Anne River Outlet

I returned to the lakeshore for another extended bit of sighing admiration. Over breakfast we seemed caught between the pull of spending more time in this sublime place, and the push of heading homeward via a hot lunch. I considered it my duty to prolong our stay a little by taking an age to pack up. My main excuse was that there had been a heavy dew on the outside of the tent, as well as condensation on the inside. Perhaps some sun might dry things a little. (It didn’t.)

 

My Tent ... Not Drying

Eventually I was packed and ready, and we began retracing our steps towards the Anne River crossing, and the site of yesterday afternoon’s planned burn. We expected we would see and smell smoke soon, but it wasn’t until we were nearly at the bridge that we caught the tarry whiff and saw the blackened bush. Back towards Mt Sarah Jane we noticed a few tendrils of smoke that could easily have been mistaken for low mist. The burn had been small and cool, the overnight temperature and high humidity quickly quelling what was, after all, a late season burn. There was little risk this burn would break any boundaries today. Cooler, small-patch burning is now one of the main approaches of Parks in this kind of country. It lowers the risk of out-of-control, landscape-wide burns during the hotter, drier months.

Burned vegetation close up

But fire is notoriously difficult to keep on its leash. As we walked along the track, we raised our eyebrows once or twice, seeing how close the fire had come to the raised boardwalk. Thankfully the accurate bucket-work of the helicopter pilot had done its job. We meandered down the Anne River valley, glad that the track (mostly) kept out of the sodden lower parts. Above us Schnells Ridge stood bright bronze against a blue sky. Cloud had obscured that aspect of it on the previous morning. Larry and Libby both looked up at the open, lightly-vegetated hills with a longing I recognised well. They were hatching plans to have a more thorough look at the range another time. 

 

Schnells Ridge and some burned ground

As we sidled easily and comfortably along the flanks of the ridge, one of the others asked the origin of the name “Schnells Ridge”. I took that on notice, and said I’d try to find out. I learned that there’s some debate about it. But it seems probable that the ridge was named in honour of Phillip Schnell who, with his brother Harry, explored and prospected the upper Huon Valley and the south-west in the late 19^th century. It may seem odd to us now that there’s such a connection between the Huon and this area. But it’s only since the 1970s – and the tragic damming of Lake Pedder – that the south-west has been accessible by road from the Derwent Valley via Maydena. Before that the quickest way in was by foot or bridle track from the upper Huon. Sometimes the lens through which we view the world can be small.

The morning now grew warm, and our shuffling legs moved us along: occasionally uphill, but mostly down; steadily westward, ever homeward. But there was one more little meteorological surprise in store for us. Our old companion, the cloud, paid us one last visit, embracing us with all the enthusiasm of a large, wet dog. The warmth of the morning suddenly gone, we stopped to put on a warmer layer. And then we cloud walked, through a grey and circumscribed world, all the way back to the car.

Libby Cloud Walking

 We’d had clouds on both sides of our walk. Or to adapt Joni Mitchell’s words:

 

We'd looked at clouds from both sides now
From up and down, and still somehow
It's cloud illusions, we recall
We really don't know clouds at all

 

A moist web in the mist

As we drove back, and chatted about our walk, we decided it was what we experienced between the clouds that really stood out. Lakes, cliffs, mountains, moraines, hills and an impossibly blue sky, all in good company. And maybe those things stood out all the more because they were sandwiched between cloud. A blessing sandwich, if you will. 

Clouds From Both Sides: Part 1

Clouds From Both Sides: Part 1

 

I've looked at clouds from both sides now
From up and down, and still somehow
It's cloud illusions, I recall
I really don't know clouds at all – Joni Mitchell

Buttongrass and lowering cloud

 

Cloud was the last thing on our minds. All the forecasts were favourable: clear, sunny, no precipitation. It was the dream of the retired bushwalker. A working day for others perhaps, but for three of us it was a forecast made for walking! 

 

The trip had been a long time coming. The so-called Summer of 2025/26 had basically been a no-show. As if the unfavourable weather hadn’t been enough, social busy-ness and companionly health issues had stymied most walks. My boots had largely remained un-muddied, though my spirit was straining at the leash. Autumn would be better, surely? 

 

The answer came in the form of some huge blocking high pressure systems. One lingered over the Tasman Sea from late April into May, bringing fine weather and record high temperatures to Tasmania. It was the summer we thought we’d missed. When another high came a week later, my leash finally snapped! Three of us hastily organised a trip, and got packing.

 

* * *

 

It’s Monday morning, and we’re driving west from Hobart, heading for the wilderness. The smiles on our faces are real, even if the wind in our hair is metaphorical. There’s little or no wind forecast.  Bushwalking in the Tasmanian Wilderness in May, in calm, sunny weather? Surely, it’s a dream? But then dreams are sometimes associated with sleeping on clouds. 

 

As we drive through New Norfolk, past Mount Field, and on towards Southwest National Park, we discover one of western Tasmania’s little meteorological secrets. High pressure, high humidity and no wind equals low cloud. As we descend towards Lake Pedder, the mountains are obscured by cloud. The queen of the south-west, Mount Anne, is nowhere to be seen; the valleys are fog-bound, and there’s no sign of the sun. Still, our hopes remain high: at least it’s not raining.

 

Three at the start of the Lake Judd Track

Neither Libby nor Larry has walked in this part of the south-west before, and my last trip to Lake Judd and the surrounding hills was many years ago. Since then, back in 2019, a huge fire wiped out a lot of the track, and severely impacted some of the park’s vegetation. Happily, the track has now been rebuilt, so as we wind our way around the buttongrass-clad hills, it feels like a totally new walk. 

On the track looking back to Lake Pedder

 

Other things are much as they’ve always been here. The silence is profound, broken only by the jip of crescent honey-eaters; the claxon call of currawongs; the crunch of boots on the distinctively white and pink quartzite of the track. And what’s that green bird that Libby points out fluttering low across the track? It’s a Ground Parrot (Pezoporus wallicus), blending in with the vegetation so well that I barely know where to aim my camera. These masters of camouflage feed and breed in the low-growing tussocks, and rarely move far from that territory. As we walk on, it keeps up its furtive low flight before landing and scuttling under a low bush to hide.

 

Spot the Ground Parrot (click to enlarge)

As we get into our stride, I’m finding the new track very amenable, with its mix of constructed steps and gravel on the slopes, and parallel planking on the flatter, wetter ground. But I’m also finding that the other two are easily outpacing me, at risk of disappearing into the mist that hangs low. Libby has been training for a long-distance run, and Larry, despite recovering from a cold, is simply fitter than me. But after we stop for a lunch break half-way to our destination, they kindly agree to match their pace to mine. 

Libby and Larry getting ahead of me

 

The new track continues to ease us towards the lake, but a couple of kilometres from our destination, the newness end. Suddenly we step back a couple of decades, back to when the names Judd and mud were closely associated. We slop through some good old-fashioned sludge; brush through stubborn banksia bushes; stumble over slippery tree roots; stretch towards mud-covered rocks, often missing them. Eventually we emerge from this section, and find more boardwalk. This leads us to a track junction … and a difficult memory for me, which I share with the others. 

 

In my 30s I’d come here with a large group. We’d split into two parties on the way to Mount Sarah Jane, and one walker had found herself behind the lead group, but ahead of the following bunch. She turned left, towards Lake Judd, instead of right towards Sarah Jane. When we realised what had happened, her brother and I went back to Lake Judd to search for her.

Your blogger (not lost) in a rainforest - photo by Libby

We found her at the lake, and she was quite distraught. After giving her sympathy and snacks, we quickly headed off to rejoin the others, who were now an hour or two ahead of us. In our rush, we ourselves took a wrong turn, and ended up hopelessly off track and scrub bound in some of the area’s notoriously dense vegetation. For more than 3 hours we bush-bashed steeply uphill through unrelenting scrub, finally emerging – utterly exhausted – as darkness fell. On the dodgiest of slopes, the three of us squeezed into a 2-person tent and tried to sleep. But our trials weren’t over yet. A few hours before dawn a strong cold front smashed into us, almost tearing our tent down. We hurriedly packed up by torchlight, and stumbled uphill in the dark wind and rain, until we at last found the rest of our group. That uphill slog remains one of the worst experiences of my long walking career. Error compounding error, meets south-west scrub and wild weather.

 

But the past is the past. Today we intend to take that left turn towards Lake Judd. I tell the others the track will become rooty once we enter rainforest, which it duly does. It’s only just gone 3pm, but it’s so dark in the forest that it feels as though someone has turned out the lights. Pink climbing heath shine bright in the gloom.

Climbing Heath in the rainforest

There’s a final sting in the tail: a steep and rooty climb through sodden forest. It feels like a mini version of Moss Ridge on the way into Federation Peak. As we scramble upwards, Larry and Libby are breezily discussing the mindset of endurance athletes, and how they always manage to find that extra 10%. Me? I’m all out of percentages, struggling for breath while muttering under it “Where’s the bl**dy campsite?”

 

Our disparate mindsets soon reunite as we start to glimpse water through the trees. Libby momentarily mistakes it for more cloud, but the mini ripples on the otherwise still lake give it away. We dump our packs, then find some suitable tent-sites beneath the trees, before I suggest we check out the view from the water’s edge. I've told the others that it’s one of the most stunning views from any campsite in the state. The huge Eliza Plateau rises abruptly above the far shore of the large and stunning lake. But from the shore we see none of this. Cloud has settled low over the lake. It’s beautiful in its misty, tranquil way, but surely the others must think I’ve oversold it. 

 

Only time will tell, if the clouds decide to cooperate. Meanwhile aesthetic matters give way to practicality. We set our tents up, and get our food prep underway. It’s been a good day, a promising start to our walk. More than that: it's simply wonderful to be out here, clouds or not.