The Bogs of Heaven

In 1678, when John Bunyan was choosing a landscape in which the hero of The Pilgrim’s Progress might experience despair, he looked no further than a bog.

They drew nigh to a very miry slough that was in the midst of the plain, and they, being heedless, did both fall suddenly into the bog. The name of the slough was Despond.

[In the slough of despond. (Illustration by H.C. Selous from an 1870s edition of The Pilgrim's Progress] 

Since Bunyan’s time much has changed in the world. But whether you call it slough, bog, mire, marsh, mud, swamp or sludge, there are still few who’d name such a place their favourite. And in the case of our mate Jim, there’s certainly no trace of Eeyore*, which is probably why Tim and I haven’t worded him up on our dirty little secret. The truth is we’re determined to visit some bogs in the high alpine zone of Tasmania’s Mt Field National Park.

The three of us have spent our first night in a private hut near Lake Dobson inside the park. A hut situated close to your car has its advantages, including the ability to cart in luxury items. A night of fine food – or in Jim’s case a stale bread roll – plus fine wine and plenty of chocolate, has left us needing some compensatory exercise.

Our morning weather is clear, though rain is forecast later. That rules out the very long day trip to Mt Field West, but also precludes a day sloughing about in the hut. After a bit of pretend debate we choose what Tim and I already have in mind: the Tarn Shelf/Newdegate Pass/Rodway Range circuit. And the highlight of the walk, for us at least, will be the globally significant string bogs around Newdegate Pass.

[Jim & Tim in the alpine zone, Mt Field National Park] 

But first we have to traverse the familiar – and favourite – territory of Tarn Shelf. Pilgrims of a different kind come here every autumn, as the tarn-dotted plateau has one of the best accessible displays of deciduous fagus in Tasmania. We’ve been among those pilgrims many times, but have also visited in every other season. Jim and I chat about previous visits, some shared, some not. We eventually near Lake Newdegate Hut, now in poor condition, and joke that both the hut and our knees have seen better days.

But blustering about our “mature-age” fitness, Tim and I con Jim into heading further up rather than turning around here. We plod up the scrubby slope; totter over the boulder field; amble to the top of the slope, and there we are: among the string bogs that dot the area around the pass.

[Classic string bogs: looking west from Newdegate Pass] 

So what are string bogs? Essentially they are interconnected micro lakes formed when peat and bolster heath plants (such as cushion plants) impede the flow of water in an already saturated landscape. When Mt Field National Park was finally added to the Tasmanian Wilderness World Heritage Area in 2013, these string bogs were one of the reasons. They are quite uncommon not only in Tasmania, but anywhere in the world.

Bogs they may be, but despond and despair are keeping their distance. Not only do we stay dry-footed thanks to the excellent track work here, but even when we venture off-track for photos and a good look, the ground is far from “sloughy”. At an altitude of close to 1300m, and in a place that was under snow only 6 weeks ago, that’s worth celebrating. So too is the fact that the promised rain is still looking quite some way off.

[Looking towards K Col from Newdegate Pass] 

When such factors coincide, it’s worth dawdling. And given our high level skills in that department, we find seven ways to go not-very-far-at-all, starting with long photographic stops. Next we pause for a lengthy lunch among some adjacent boulders, accompanied by the kind of jokey conversation we like to pretend we’ve perfected by now. As we’re packing up lunch I mention that the watery bogs we’re looking down at are technically known as flark ponds. The hilarity level rises and carries us loudly towards our next destination: K Col.

By the time we’re scrambling up and around the Rodway Range, however, joke levels have declined. It's hard work, and while none of us is exactly despondent, Jim does start talking about it being wine o’clock. We know that, in his case at least, whine o’clock won’t be far behind.

[Jim & Tim on the Rodways, with Florentine and Tyenna Peaks behind] 

Still, there’s nothing for it but to keep walking. Some comical videoing, a little mobile reception to call home, and a visit from a pair of wedge-tailed eagles all do their bit to egg us onward. We know there will be some tangible, edible rewards back at the hut. The intangible rewards of our hours among those heavenly bogs may take longer to work into our memories. But I suspect they'll be the longer lasting.

[Tangible rewards back at our hut] 

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* Reflecting on where he lived, Winnie-the-Pooh’s friend Eeyore said: “It isn't as if there was anything very wonderful about my little corner. Of course for people who like cold, wet, ugly bits it is something rather special.”

Child's Play

[Snow play on kunanyi/Mt Wellington] 

A Childhood Scene

It starts with watching twigs wash down a rain-filled gutter. Next we’re inventing our own version of pooh sticks, damming up the flow with mud and leaves, crafting ice cream sticks into boats, then breaching the dam and cheering on our sticks in their rush towards the stormwater drain.

[Starting early: toddlers learn by interacting with the world] 

From there it’s a logical leap to head for the creek, where surely the thrill of a greater flow will multiply our fun. And so one rainy day we’re clambering over my friend’s back fence and slipping down to the creek. The rain has been steady all day, but a heavy thunderstorm seems to have brought it to an end. There’s even a hint of sunshine.

We’re expecting a good flow – that’s why we’ve chosen a wet day – but as we get down to the creek we’re distracted looking for good racing “boats”. Everything is sodden, from the squelching, fragrant leaves of the eucalypts and turpentines to their dripping trunks.

[Creek play: chucking a rock, of course!] 

As the two of us search through piles of wet sticks for something dry enough to float, we hear a sound that’s out-of-place. How can wind be roaring in the trees when the air is still? Besides this has a deeper, growling edge. We suddenly realise it’s coming from the creek, only metres from us. Just upstream we see a brown, frothing, debris-filled torrent rushing towards us. It’s a flash flood.

We quickly clamber to a safer spot, then stand wide-eyed watching our quiet neighbourhood creek transformed into something capable of killing us. Still, we’re more excited than afraid. Although we’re no more than 11 or 12 years old, we do know how to take care of ourselves.

We’ve been rambling this bush all of our short lives. We know where the tracks and short-cuts are; know not to drink the creek water; know about snakes and spiders; know which trees are okay to climb and which aren’t; which plants scratch the worst; which neighbourhood kids we need to avoid.

* * *

[All senses engaged: Russell Falls Track, Mt Field NP] 

Many pooh sticks have bobbed down the creek since that day, and many things in everyday life have changed forever. It’s enough to make me wonder, on reflection, were my friend and I in serious danger that day? Was our bush in general a dangerous place?

If I had to answer “yes or no”, I would say “yes”. Playing in the bush has its dangers. But after that admission I would have to add a series of hefty “howevers”.

[Three generations of walkers on Tarn Shelf, Mt Field NP] 

Here are some of my "howevers":

·      Many studies show that being out in nature is good for us [1]

·      Nature play boosts creativity, imagination and problem-solving abilities [2]

·      We learn through doing as well as thinking; through our bodies as well as our minds

·      We are part of the natural world, not distinct from it

·      Staying inside can lead to over-eating and obesity [3]

·      Device addiction is a real risk [4]

·      Divorce from nature is bad for us, and bad for nature [5]

·      It is no bad thing to be dwarfed, even a little intimidated, by nature

·      Risk is inherent to life, no matter where and how we live it

So it’s not enough to simply say children playing in nature is a good idea. We need to positively promote such connection with nature. If that sounds counter to our culture, it probably is. If it sounds onerous, it’s actually child's play! Look at this list, created by Nature Play SA. It’s enough to make me me want to have my childhood all over again.

[with acknowledgement to Nature Play SA] 

---

[1] See, for instance www.childrenandnature.org/downloads/C&NNHealthBenefits2012.pdf

[2] See also www.childrenandnature.org/downloads/C&NNHealthBenefits2012.pdf

[3] for a light-hearted take on this, see http://www.brisbanetimes.com.au/comment/its-your-fault-your-kids-are-fat-20140529-zrqxk.html

[4] http://www.huffingtonpost.com/cris-rowan/10-reasons-why-handheld-devices-should-be-banned_b_4899218.html

[5] “If kids don’t have some kind of connection to nature that is hands-on and independent, then they are probably not going to develop the love of nature and vote for parks and the preservation of endangered species … Unless you know something you are unlikely to love it.” Richard Louv, author of Last Child in the Woods.

The Omnivore's Delight

Omnivores, whether bears, ravens, dogs or humans, have a dilemma at this time of the year. We have such a glut of fresh food that we don’t quite know what to do with it all.

[Part of the great lettuce glut of 2012] 

We could simply wait: the glut will fade away as quickly as our Tasmanian daylight. While today we have 10 hours of daylight, by the winter solstice in a few weeks time, we will be down to 9 hours. And even then the sun, busy powering the plants of the northern hemisphere, will be giving our food plants scant attention.

Presented with a surplus of food, and a shortening of days, most omnivores have an irresistible urge to do something with their bounty. Some deal with the boom or bust situation by gorging themselves when food is plentiful, and going into torpor or hibernation when it’s scarce. It works well enough for Alaska’s brown bears. Along the Pacific coast of Alaska, the summer glut of salmon is hard to believe. Millions of large, plump salmonids swim into a finite number of streams to spawn. Bears – and humans – literally have to walk over fish to cross a creek or move along a shore.

[Expired Alaskan salmon: just a few of the millions]  

You might expect that bears would gobble down fish indiscriminately. In fact they become quite fussy. When we were in Sitka in south-east Alaska, we came across fish that had small holes in their heads and slits along their bellies, but were otherwise intact. The lumbering bears, perhaps 3 metres tall and with paws the size of dinner plates, had used their claws as delicately as scalpals to remove just the brains and roe, the parts with the highest fat content.

The same fussy eaters would then supplement their fish diet with other plant matter, especially berries. We did likewise when we discovered blueberries growing wild in Sitka’s wet forests. Oh to have that kind of scroggin in our bush!

After their extended feast, brown bears head to their dens for around six months. It’s generally called hibernation, although the bears don’t stay fully asleep. In many cases the females even give birth during the winter, not something any mammal would sleep through. Australia’s eastern pygmy possums, fattened on nectar and insects, favour torpor rather than hibernation, as described in this earlier post.

Another response to surplus is to put food aside in some form so it can be accessed and consumed during the lean times. Butcher birds, woodpeckers and squirrels are among those to “squirrel away” their food. Dogs bury bones as part of the same instinct.

Humans, with their mastery of fire, glass, metals and refrigeration, have a substantial advantage over most omnivores. We can, in truth, store summer in a jar. Or less romantically, in the fridge or freezer. In Alaska many of our friends smoke salmon to preserve it over the winter months. Cured, smoked and salted meats were staples for many centuries prior to refrigeration. They continue to be hugely popular.

[Summer in a jar: chutneys by Lynne]

Our own glut includes tomatoes, lettuce, basil, and parsley. And even though much of our fruit is finished, we’ve also been able to find a few late raspberries and apples. We have no shortage of recipes for tomatoes and apples, especially sauces and chutneys. A few hours work help us to store the ghost of summer in the pantry. While both basil and parsley can be dried for later use, we turn our excess, blended with oil, pine nuts and parmesan, into delightfully tangy pesto.

Lettuce is more problematic. Lettuce pesto doesn’t have a convincing ring to it. Neither will it freeze or dry. Despite our best eating efforts, much of last summer’s crop is either shooting or becoming rabbit food. One friend believes that’s all it’s good for, although I can’t agree with him on that. I will miss the wet crunchy freshness of homegrown lettuce over the next few months.

One bitter-sweet seasonal marker for us is the autumn colouring of Tasmania’s endemic fagus (Nothofagus gunnii). We make our annual pilgrimage to Mt Field’s Tarn Shelf to see its beautiful autumn display. Although the colouring and dropping of leaves tell us that colder, darker times are on their way, I never tire of seeing that flame lick across the high slopes. The colouring seems an act of both retreat and triumph.

[Fagus lights up the Tarn Shelf in Mt Field National Park] 

On our way home we happen across the last of the season’s fresh raspberries for sale in Westerway. At home a handful of late berries struggles to redden, but at the berry farm they have just enough to sell by the punnet. Back in our kitchen I combine fresh and frozen raspberries and sylvan berries, and cook up a large pan of hybrid red berry jam.

I know that in the depths of winter a spoonful of that jam will bring a summer smile to my soul. Although it’s highly doubtful I need delay sampling it until winter.

The Pragmatic Pygmy Possum

Good "inside" weather: But what's it like outside? (Lake Dobson, Tasmania)  

The day started well. If it's going to be cold and wet, you may as well have something to show for it. And we did. Kunanyi/Mt Wellington was coated with snow to low levels. As we drove towards Mt Field National Park for the weekend, more mountains, from Domedary to Collins Cap, and Trestle to Field East, were looking at their best, a fine mantle of snow over the shoulders of each, and down to the surrounding hilltops.

We'd forgotten, however, that the same beautiful snow might make it a little difficult driving our two-wheel drive vehicle all the way to the ski hut at Lake Dobson. An ignominious retreat, a delay, and a lift up the mountain in our friend's 4WD eventually got us up to the snow-bound hut.

While the temperature hovered around zero, and snow flurries added to the already good ground cover, we revived ourselves with hot drinks by a warm fire. My thoughts turned to those caught out in this weather with no such luxuries, in particular the native animals which call the mountains home. How did they cope in weather like this so early in the season?

Then Phil walked in carrying a bucket of wood shavings. These are kept in the hut toilets and are used to help aerate the composting toilet waste. Three furry grey blobs, each about the size of a hacky sack (or for the Potter-philes, a small snitch) huddled in the bottom of the bucket. Pygmy possums!

To be precise eastern pygmy possums, Cercartetus nanus. These featherweight marsupials weigh between 15 and 40 grams, and stretch to maybe 90 mm in length, excluding the tail. They had apparently climbed into the buckets for warmth, and to shelter from the early and heavy snow, and had become trapped.

A sleepy eastern pygmy possum shows us it's alive (photo by Lynne Grant) 

We pick the little creatures up to check for signs of life. Disproportionately large dark eyes blink at me, whiskers slowly twitch, and a rapid heart beat flutters faint against my hand. Finally its long, bare and exquisitely curled tail unwinds. Pygmy possums use their tails to help them climb around the forest canopy, where they feed, mainly on nectar. However they are also known to take invertebrates, including moths, which they can spot at night using their large and sensitive eyes. 

Another member of the Burramyidae (pygmy possum) family is the mountain pygmy possum, which famously feasts on bogong moths in the Australian Alps every summer. That mountain variety hibernates for much of winter. With weather as fickle and occasionally freezing as that in the Tasmanian highlands, eastern pygmy possums have opted for mini hibernation, or torpor, during cold spells rather than full hibernation.

Their body temperature lowers close to the ambient temperature, and their metabolism drops correspondingly, decreasing their need for energy inputs. Torpor lasts from a few days to a few weeks, perfect for the “here today, gone tomorrow” nature of snow in Tasmania.

A furry hacky sack with whiskers: the rotund figure of an eastern pygmy possum

The eastern pygmy possum was first described by French naturalist Francois Peron in 1802. Peron collected a live pygmy possum from an Aboriginal man on Maria Island, in exchange for some trinkets. The Frenchman was of the opinion that the Aboriginal man was going to cook and eat the tiny mammal – hardly a square meal!

Our hut-visiting pygmy possums don’t seem unduly concerned at our handling of them, and when we reposition them in a shallower container, they simply shuffle close together and continue their slumber.

We check the “fur kids” several times in the early evening, as much smitten by their furry charms as for any real help we might have offered them. When it’s bed time for us, we put their open container out in the vestibule, and leave them to it. We figure, correctly, that they will move on during the night.

As I settle into my sleeping bag in the near-to-freezing bunkroom, I shiver for the first minute or two, waiting for the down bag to have its effect. In that moment I envy the pygmy possum its ability to curl into a ball. And as the wind thumps into the side of the hut, and whistles through the door and window cracks, I start to see why the occasional period of torpor might have a lot going for it.

Snowed Under

[walkers head towards Mt Field East, a light 21st century dusting of snow on the gound]

One winter, nearly 31 years ago, something very unusual happened in Mt Field National Park in southern Tasmania. The night of Friday August 10th 1979 saw more than a metre of snow fall on its mountains. Driven by a freezing south-westerly wind, the snow smothered the park from low levels to the heights of Mt Mawson, changing the shape, sound and look of the mountains entirely.


Skiers keen to spend their Saturday taking advantage of this amazing snow cover – one John Davis among them – must have rubbed their mittens in anticipation. With the whole area skiable, many skiers were ascending and descending the slopes when, without warning, a snow cornice above the Golden Stairs collapsed. John Davis and some other skiers were trapped beneath. While the others were rescued, John remained buried in the snow and died. His was the first death by avalanche recorded in Tasmania: a grisly and unwanted statistic that is unlikely to be added to, given climate change and the kinds of snow seasons Tasmania has experienced this century.


My first year in Tasmania was the year after this tragic death. Every visitor to the ski-field was told the story, and most had a grim desire to see the site. I was among those who gingerly climbed the Golden Stairs in snow, subsequently skiing cross-country towards Mt Field West. But from the mid 1980s onwards, skiing at Mt Mawson was starting to become a hit-and-miss affair. And this century not many winters have seen a good ski season.


I returned to the area earlier this July, enjoying an icy excursion into the highlands, ‘though not via the Golden Stairs. Like the gaping jaws of Sydney’s Luna Park after the ghost train tragedy, the “stairs” have a sad taint. The route is now closed.


While it was cold wandering over to Tarn Shelf – this was July after all – there was barely enough snow for a miniature snowman. The visit confirmed that I’d never invest in ski gear for use in Tasmania. It also had me reflecting afresh on John Davis’ dreadful luck.

New Zealand is another matter altogether. While their glaciers are shrinking, skiing is alive and well. And avalanches still manage to claim many lives every year. Even in late spring, trampers on many of Aotearoa’s mountainous tracks are advised to check avalanche forecasts. In some places bridges and other infrastructure are removed over winter to prevent them being swept away by avalanche.

[walking through an avalanche prone area on NZ's Routeburn Track ... and it's almost summer!]

It is sobering to walk through an avalanche zone, especially when Kiwis tell you with a smile that a football sized snow-ball at terminal velocity will take your head off. “But the good thing is, you won’t hear it coming” one added, with typically dry gallows humour.