A Mt Anne Epic 4: The Walking Wounded

At dawn the light is dull, sluggish. I’m the same, but make myself go out with my camera to check out the show. The valley is filled with slowly swirling cloud, but the tops are clear. It will be a fine, warm day once the sky shrugs off the valley’s blanket.

[Morning cloud burns off beneath Mt Lot & Lots Wife]

Tim and I wander across the shelf, looking for angles. I’m also testing my ankle, which feels walkable, ‘though the thought of carrying a full pack is daunting. We try not to linger over breakfast – there’s a long day ahead – but we rarely seem capable of breaking camp quickly. Apart from our desire to dry our tents before packing them, this place has a gravitational pull that makes it hard to escape.

It’s 9-30am before we wander up the slight incline towards the point where North-East Ridge meets Pandani Shelf. On the way we stop and chat with the only other people we’ve seen up here: two men with high-end photographic gear. We glean a couple of valuable tips, firstly how long they’ve taken to walk up from the road (6 hours) and secondly that they’ve taped their route with blue tape (which they intend to remove on their way back).

[Tim starts the descent. The road is just visible in the background. (Click to enlarge the image.)] 

We do a quick calculation of our return time, estimating 8 hours. That’s based on their fitness relative to ours, and how much injury and inexperience may slow us down. Just before plunging steeply through the forest we take a short detour to see if we can find Anne-A-Kananda, once the deepest known cave in Australia. (It has since been surpassed – only slightly – by Tachycardia and Niggly Caves, in the Junee Florentine system, a little further north of here.)  

[The Anne-A-Kananda sinkhole, with Lake Timk and Lots Wife]

The viewpoint gives only a hint of the huge hole beneath, and we don’t have the time to explore further. But we are still awestruck by the scale of the work done by mere H2O on this limestone ridge. We try – mostly in vain - to capture some of it photographically.

The “track” we’re aiming for – sometimes called the Bombardier Track – indirectly owes its existence to limestone. In the late 1960s a solo bushwalker went missing in this area. A caterpillar-tracked vehicle known as a bombardier, used by both the Hydro and mining companies for exploration, was co-opted to aid with the search. Unfortunately the walker was never found, and was presumed to have fallen into one of the numerous sinkholes in the area. However the track remains visible in some places, and the route is occasionally used by walkers like us.

[A 1960s bombardier, with HEC staff. (Ashton/National Library of Australia)]

The descent is long and steep, very steep. Trekking poles – just one for most of us - are extended. I’m using mine as an emergency brake, keeping some of the weight off my ankle. The rainforest is dense and deep green, with light filtering through myrtle beech and sassafras overtowered by old and gnarled King Billy pine. The pines have deposited a soft brown layer on the forest floor, and the undergrowth is mostly sparse, at least at first. We are making reasonable progress, although the downhill plunge is hot, hard and thirsty work. We welcome the shade, and take frequent drink stops. Outside this green haven the day is becoming warm and sunny.

[Tim finds shade on the descent through the forest] 

We stop for lunch somewhere towards the bottom half of the slope, ‘though not as far down as I’d hoped. After lunch the interminable downhill plunge continues, and the scrub thickens. The walk starts to become a tactical battle, a mental game for each of us as individuas, and as a group. Finding the route, now sparsely marked with blue – and pink and yellow – plastic tape, has become more of a task. Some of the tapes lead in contradictory directions. Lina is in the lead for a time, her first go at route finding. We’re pleased to be able to congratulate her on not getting lost.

But this victory is overshadowed by sounds of disgruntlement from elsewhere. Mick is having a hard time. Stumbling and grumbling, at one point he falls over outright, cursing loudly. We pause to help – once we’ve taken some photographs – and make “we’ll soon be at the bottom” type promises.

[Mick takes a tumble ... and we take photos!]

Eventually we do reach the toe of the slope, but it’s clear Mick is not well. He goes off to dig an emergency hole, returning a while later still not looking great. He’s clearly exhausted, as we all are, but we guess he’ll be okay. With that we plunge out of the forest and onto the buttongrass plain.

Five minutes into our 4km slog along the plain, Mick stops, drops his pack, and starts vomiting. There’s not much we can do but put a hand on his shoulder and mutter sympathies. After a few violent episodes, he manages to swig some water, take a few deep breaths, and gradually get to his feet. It’s the start of a long and almost impossibly hard return walk for him.

He is sick several more times. We pause often on a slow and seemingly endless march across the plain. Actually it’s anything but “plain”. At a few points there are creeks and scrub bands that interrupt the buttongrass. At these points the twin bombardier tracks, which were at times plainly visible, are suddenly unfindable; either overgrown or otherwise obfuscated.

[Paola on the Bombardier Track, with Anne Range behind]

Given that the tracks are at least 45 years old, we probably should be surprised that we can see any of them. The wider scene is quite stunning, even if we’re not in a position to really appreciate it. The whole north-western flank of the Anne Range rears up out of the surrounding plains and forest. She is imperious, majestic, this Queen Anne.

Tim and I talk about going ahead, finding the car, dropping our gear and returning to carry Mick’s gear. But each time he manages to rally enough to shrug the suggestion off, and to walk on for another few hundred metres. I’m wearing my GPS and can measure both our progress and the distance to the road. Our advance is agonizingly slow. Not for the first time I wonder whether it’s best not to know.

The afternoon heats up, and we beat on into the face of the sun. We keep trying to persuade Mick to just stop and let us come back for him and his pack in a short while. But he’s made of stern stuff – not to say somewhat stubborn – and he keeps finding a way to walk on.

When we finally agree that Paola and I will go ahead and come back once we’ve reached the road, we don’t manage to shake off Mick’s pursuit. As we enter the last little bit of scrub (of course there has to be something nasty before we finish!) we turn to see the rest of the group only 200m or so behind us. Mick’s going to do it all under his own steam.

Barely ten minutes after we reach the road, the rest stagger out of the bush and onto the road verge. If Mick is the crookest, no-one else is in great shape. Lina walks out, and lurches off to find a quiet spot. She is utterly spent, and not yet up to celebrating an incredible effort: her first excursion into some of the toughest country in a truly wild part of the world.

[Tim, Mick, Lina and Paola at the road]

It’s 7-30pm. We’ve been on our feet for 10 hours. We’re a long way from feeling elation. We’re just relieved that we’ve managed to hobble, stagger and persist our way out of the bush under our own steam. Next time we might try something straightforward.

A Mt Anne Epic 2: Hands-in-Pockets

Overnight the storm rages. The nor-westerly trough that brought the storm over the mountain is replaced around two in the morning by a sou-westerly change. There’s more lightning, more thunder, and the winds stiffen from the forecast 30km/h to well over double that. My sturdy old Macpac Olympus tent isn’t bothered by the wind, but the uproar keeps Tim and me awake for a time.

[On the ascent above Eliza Hut] 

 Having been woken, I find I’m a little anxious about the unknowns of the day ahead. But our recce up Mt Eliza in the afternoon has been valuable on a couple of levels. First we’ve been able to introduce Lina to the new-to-her concept of boulder scrambling, and without having to carry a large pack. She is mildly disturbed by the experience, but lives to tell the tale. And at least she knows what to expect first thing tomorrow.

We’ve also been able to quiz a friend we met up there about our intended route around Mt Anne. We won’t use her real name – for reasons that will become apparent – although “Janet’s” words are inscribed in our memories. She breezily recalls that the section between Mt Anne and North-East Ridge is a “hands-in-pockets” walk. Those of us who know Janet best are a little wary, given her “glass-half-full” take on life, and her reputation as a strong walker. Still we can’t help but be a little reassured, especially since none of us has been that way before.

The disturbed night and low cloud combine to keep us in the tent late. We have no desire to climb Eliza in wet cloud. Instead we discuss our day’s tactics over a slow and convivial breakfast in the hut. Just as we’re cleaning up, as if on cue the cloud breaks up and the sun starts to peep through. Our minds are made up for us.

Considering yesterday’s dose of heat exhaustion, I’m feeling quite good, and am pleasantly surprised to reach the top of Eliza with ease. Lina surprises herself too, coping well with the large boulders. She pauses on top of her first Tasmanian “mountain” for a quick celebration.

[Lina on top of Mt Eliza] 

 The wind is still fresh, though nothing like the overnight blasts. It’s pleasantly cool: ideal walking weather. We come across a party we’d met the day before. They’re on their way down Eliza, ahead of schedule, after a terrible night at Shelf Camp. Two of their three tents have had poles snapped in the overnight wind. They’re cold, wet and not keen to stay and chat. We try to resist a dose of schadenfreude, knowing full well we had planned to camp in the same spot last night.

We wonder what has become of Janet and Geoff, but the returning group has no news. They certainly hadn’t seen them at Shelf Camp. As we wander across the alpine plateau, we come across a tent nestled among some low rocks. There’s no-one there but we’re pretty sure it belongs to Janet and Geoff. As we pause for lunch a little further on, the pair walks by.

They tell us of a scary night in the open, with gale force winds and lightning strikes not far from their tent. Given that experience and a tight schedule they too have decided to head down rather than continue their planned Mt Anne Circuit. “We might check out Schnells Ridge instead.” We freshly quiz Janet about the way around Mt Anne, and glean a few more details – including her pointing to our best route – before she and Geoff return to pack up their tent.

After lunch we have a few sublimely hands-in-pockets moments as we wander over to the edge of the plateau. We take in views over glacially-carved Lake Judd to Schnells Ridge and beyond. Then, our packs back on, we make our way towards the shoulder of Mt Anne, herself massively torn by the actions of ice over the last few million years.

[Looking over Lake Judd towards Schnells Ridge] 

 I recall taking my brother-in-law Mike up this mountain one cold and windy day back in the 1980s. In basic day-walk gear we boulder-hopped and scrambled our way up the intimidating peak. Mike wore a plastic poncho in lieu of a rain jacket. In the wind it acted like a crazy spinnaker, blowing him on a dangerously erratic course across the boulders.

More than 30 years later, as we negotiate our way across those same boulder fields, I wonder how we survived that day. This time there’s certainly no hopping involved. We pick our wary way across the rough rocky slopes that surround the mountain.

 [Traversing boulders beneath Mt Anne]

 We’re soon scrambling past the normal route to the summit. We’ve been told there’s a “back door” to the summit, further around. Some of our group are keen to try this out, though given the time we figure that might be tomorrow’s challenge.

Although the distance to N-E Ridge on the map is not great, it is a rough route, and we wait in vain for the hands-in-pockets section to begin. Instead I find a much less desirable foot-in-hole moment. As I’m leading a steep sidling section I put my left foot down on what appears to be a vegetation-covered boulder. Instead there’s a hole beneath it. My left foot goes down 40 or 50cm further than expected, leaving my right foot high above. The mechanics being all wrong, my right ankle wrenches sideways and backwards.

I shout out in pain and drop to the ground. Have I heard a crack, or was that just the wrench shooting up through my nerves? I’ve never broken a bone, so I’m not sure what it would feel like. But the phrases “personal locator beacon” and “helicopter rescue” definitely come to mind!

[Tim straps my ankle: photo by Mick Adams] 

 Tim is first on the scene, and he asks all the right questions. I take off my boot, and find I can wiggle my toes and move my foot without too much pain. Not broken, then … but can I walk? Tim binds the ankle firmly. I swig some water, eat some scroggin, then put the swollen foot back inside my boot. I try out a step or two, and it seems workable if painful.

The rest of that walk down to N-E Ridge is slow, rough and horrible. Each time I put my right ankle down it protests and I wince. But using a trekking pole as part walking stick/part brake, I am able to hobble slowly along the scrubby, rocky ridge.

[Hobbling along N-E Ridge: photo by Paola] 

 After some hours of slow and literally painstaking traversing, we find what might be a way down to Pandani Shelf where we plan to camp. Our descent route is steep and undignified, but where legs don’t work well I find a bottom does fine. Nothing in this part of Tasmania is easy or straightforward, but we finally reach the shelf as the last of the sun is setting over the far mountains.

[The shadow of Mt Anne creeps towards Lake Timk, with Lots Wife and Mt Lot] 

It’s probably a beautiful place; it’s certainly surrounded by magnificent peaks; it’s quite possibly the perfect place for a hands-in-pockets rest day. Tomorrow will answer all that. For now I’m just glad to be here more or less in one piece.