Crossing the Plateau 3: Touching the Walls

During the night the rain taps and whispers on the tent fly, but I’m not keen to let it in. I’m snug in my revised sleeping “system”, which comprises a new down quilt and a new, thicker sleeping mat. The mat may rustle a little more than my previous one, but that just matches the wind in the pines. The whole percussive ensemble soon has me asleep.

The next morning is very cool, and the wind is still fresh, though the rain has cleared. We pack up and leave promptly, keen to make up time after our unscheduled delay. We’re aiming first for Long Tarns. It’s an apt name for a series of interconnected linear tarns that run almost 3km from north-west to south-east. They create an effective barrier to anyone walking from our direction.

[The group departs Long Tarns (click to enlarge)] 

I’ve been to Long Tarns before, but my memory of that trip – back in the early 1980s – is not only faded, it’s geographically irrelevant. It was winter, and I’d come only to the northern edge of Long Tarns after an ascent of Mersey Bluff. An old photo has me standing at the edge of the tarn, as if pondering the possibility of skating on its thin ice. Looking back it’s dizzying to think of something like 36 years of personal familiarity with this country. It feels akin to a songline for me.

[A young Peter at Long Tarns, ca. 1982. photo by KM] 

On this occasion we’ve gone around the southern edge of Long Tarns, though only after seeing whether the summer “low tide” would allow us to cross a little further north. It wouldn’t. But we do find a couple of large rock cairns, which we guess are associated with the long-disused drove route known as Ritters Track. “Track” is now a misnomer, as there’s no clear sign of it on the ground, and we find it much easier to simply go cross-country.

After a short break at the southernmost of the tarns, we strike our first bit of scrubby country. And now we have to lift our legs higher, land them a little less certainly, and take longer in finding a way through or around the scrub. Walking poles briefly become a nuisance as they get caught in the bauera, cutting grass and teatree that sometimes block our route. The going soon becomes easier, but when we find an open meadow near a shallow lake, we’re more than ready for a lunch break. Rocks allow us to recline, the sun obliges by starting to shine, and we have a decent rest. 

[Libby enjoying the lunch break (photo by Mick Adams)] 

But just after we get walking again, trouble strikes. There’s a muffled shout from the rear of the group, and I turn to find Mick on the ground. He’s wincing and oohing, and appears to have twisted his ankle quite badly. But after a short recline, Mick convinces us it’s okay. He gets to his feet, and starts testing whether his ankle will hold his weight. It does, but some of us have experienced Mick’s “man-of-steel” stubbornness before. We strap the ankle, slow our pace, and watch him carefully for the next few hours.

[One of the slow sections approaching the Walls] 

By mid afternoon we’re drawing close to Mt Jerusalem, the first mountain on our side of the Walls of Jerusalem. There are also lakes and pools aplenty – as there have been the entire walk – but we’re on the lookout for one in particular. We’ve decided Lake Tyre, being just inside the “official” Walls, is our first potential camping spot. Again my memory of it from a 1980s trip is useless, as I didn’t camp there, and have no recollection of its potential as an overnight stop.

[Yes, we also used paper maps] 

Soon enough, as we approach the lake’s eastern edge, we have an answer of sorts. There’s a large open area near the shore, although it’s not well sheltered, and is somewhat lumpy. Everyone is tired, but a few of us decide to leave our packs and scout around on the other side of the lake. We can see pencil pine stands on both the western and northern shores, and think they might offer better shelter. It turns out that west is best, and we hoist packs and spend another 20 minutes scrambling around to the far shore. Our decision is met with some grumpiness from one (nameless) member of our party. He’s already found the perfect nook for his tent on the eastern side, and is not happy with being uprooted.

[Late afternoon at Lake Tyre] 

After a certain amount of chiding – in the gentle spirit that has pervaded our walk thus far – our grumpy friend settles into his new (inferior!) site, and eventually joins us in enjoying what turns out to be a spectacularly beautiful evening. The sun stays with us, the wind eases, and under clear blue skies the lake’s surface turns a glassy deep blue.

I had always thought this lake was named after the biblical city of Tyre – an ancient Mediterranean port – given that so many other place names in the Walls follow biblical themes. If I was puzzled that nearby Lake Thor bore a name from Norse mythology, I figured that might have been some kind of early ecumenical gesture. I have since heard that pioneer Walls of Jerusalem bushwalker, Reg Hall, had cheekily named these two lakes after two women he often walked with in the mid part of the 1900s. So it seems that Lake Tyre is named for Peggy McInTYRE, and Lake Thor for Joan THORold.

[TimO at sunset, Lake Tyre] 

The next day is relatively short. We’re keen to avoid the crowds that we know will be in the central Walls area, so we’re heading for Tiger Lake by dropping down beside Zion Gate and into Officers Creek. Along the way we sadly farewell Tim and Merran, who have to walk all the way out today.

Our destination reminds a few of us that there’s a kind of anniversary to mark at the lake. It’s five years since we first met Libby in this very park. Then new to Tasmania, she was walking solo, but happily tagged along with us when she heard we were going in search of Solitary Hut on the side of Tiger Lake. She’s been walking with us ever since, an arrangement that suits us all very well.

[Reflections: Tiger Lake] 

Five years ago, we had to watch our path to the lake very carefully, as it was far from distinct. Disappointingly it’s now impossible to miss, as someone has sprayed fluoro orange paint all along the route, on rocks, trees and even on the ground. In a wilderness zone this is a very ugly and thoughtless intrusion, and something that causes more grumpiness in our group than yesterday’s campsite shift.

Just before Solitary Hut, and a little above Tiger Lake, we find an open area in a eucalypt woodland in which to set our tents. But for Jim any hut is irresistible, and he decides to set up inside the hut. We visit him, though only briefly, and one at a time. The hut is both spartan and tiny, and turns out to have a healthy population of mosquitoes.

[Jim looking proprietorial at Solitary Hut] 

The man who built the hut back in the 1980s was an amateur weight-lifter, and incorporated a chin-up bar into the hut. He also arranged some rocks in what is now our campsite to serve as a bench press. There’s more of his story here http://www.naturescribe.com/2013/03/solitary.html

[Looking from Solitary Hut towards Tiger Lake] 

One unexpected feature of the hut is that it houses a spade. Unless you’ve spent 6 days in the bush, digging toilet holes with small trowels, you may have difficulty understanding what a magnificent luxury this is. As we depart the lake early the next morning, there seems to be a special spring in our steps. While the spade may be partly responsible, it’s also that this is to be our last day. The walk to our cars is both short and downhill, and we have the even greater luxury of a hot lunch at the Mole Creek pub to look forward to.

But while a hot meal is a standout in the short term, this walk has given us much more than that to digest. Without climbing one single mountain, we’ve seemed on top of the world – or at least of Tasmania – for much of our walk. We’ve met challenges ranging from off-track navigation and large group decision making; to injury and occasionally harsh weather. For me, although it jostles alongside 36 years of other walks in this region, it will remain one of the most memorable walks I’ve ever done. 

Solitary

It is good to be solitary, for solitude is difficult; that something is difficult must be a reason the more for us to do it. - Rainer Maria Rilke
 

[Sphagnum and pencil pines fringe a typical highland lake] 

The water feels cool, but what water doesn’t, unless it’s bathwater? Thunder clouds are building, and we won’t have long to linger at the lake. As I stand in the shallows, the “boys” offer rough encouragement from their warm, dry bank.

It’ll be fine once you’re up to your nethers! … Get it over with you big girl’s blouse! … C’mon - just dive. You’ll be right.

I dive, and am pleasantly surprised. We’re three days into a four day walk. It’s been hot and surprisingly humid. For the last couple of hours we’ve been off-track, sweating as we tackled a little more scoparia than we’d planned. So we’re ready for a swim. But this is the Walls of Jerusalem in the Tasmanian highlands. Swimming and highland lakes do not normally go together. Shivering, perfunctory ablutions are the more usual form.

How different this is. After my dive I retrieve a Croc that’s floated free, and turn to tell the unbelievers just how good it is. They’re slow to, but they eventually join me, including Libby – our campsite neighbour and a first-time Walls walker – who has tagged along to gain some off-track experience from "seasoned" walkers.

The sphagnum edged, pine fringed lake is narrow and long, perhaps a kilometre long. And it’s deep. A couple of metres off the shore I can’t reach the bottom, despite an exploratory plunge. It’s cold down there too, but on the surface there are delightful wedges of warm.

Lightning flashes somewhere, and a few seconds later thunder rumbles, reverberating around the dolerite walls and lake-filled valleys. The sky to the north-west, the weather quarter, is darkening. Bruised looking clouds are rolling this way. Someone suggests it might not be good to be caught in the water if lightning strikes come any closer. We nod, and keep swimming.

It feels right to linger at this particular lake, given our reasons for being here. We’ve come in search of the Solitary Hut, a legendary structure each of us had known something about, but none of us had ever seen. Given that I started coming here before the hut was built, and that I’d been to The Walls maybe eight times, it’s overdue.

[Solitary Hut, Walls of Jerusalem National Park] 

For Jeff, there’s a personal connection with the hut’s builder (we’ll call him “Doug”). Jeff used to weight train with Doug during the late 1970s, and had known about the hut for years. He and his brothers had even come looking once, but had failed to find it.

That may sound unlikely, but we soon confirm just how cryptic the hut is. Jim is leading as we sidle up the eastern edge of the lake. We have the hut’s location marked on a map, and entered into a GPS. There is a faint track – more a pad really – and Jim turns to tell me he thinks he’s lost the track. Before he can finish his sentence, he is laughing. As he’s turned around, there is the hut, just three metres away.

[The well-disguised Solitary Hut] 

It is a simple A-frame affair, clad in grey-green roofing metal, with a rock foundation. Jeff goes inside, at first unsure whether this is the hut Doug built. But he finds a hand-built chin-up bar just inside the door, and smiles broadly. Doug used to pride himself on his chin-up prowess.

Jeff tells us a bit about the man who built the hut. In the early 1980s Doug’s life had taken some difficult turns, including a marriage breakdown. A keen bushwalker, he had sought out a remote location to retreat to. He wanted his mind to become as strong as his body. Over a period of just six weeks in 1983, he had built this simple, isolated bush hut, carrying in everything that he needed. Between January 1984 and July 1985 he spent the bulk of his time living in what he called “Solitary Hut”.

Because it was, and is, an illegal structure, he has chosen to remain anonymous, refering to himself as “Solitary Man”. Although he was usually solitary, he did bring visitors up to the hut, and also shared it with possums that were so friendly they would sit on his lap. We read in the hut’s logbook that Doug continues to come here regularly, and that he has remarried and had a daughter.

[The "Boys" at Solitary Hut: photo by Libby] 

After spending time looking around the hut, most of us leave to find a good swimming spot. But Jeff stays to get more of a feel for how his old weight-training buddy must have felt living here. While we’re swimming further down the lake, Jeff plunges in just below the hut site, and communes with the memory of his friend for a while longer.

* * *

Crocs may not be sartorially elegant, but during our swim Jim and I find a new use for them. They are wonderfully buoyant, and keep our feet up as we float on our backs. I lie there for some time, my head half-submerged, looking towards the still bright sky. When I close my eyes, the world turns silent and tangerine, the bright light penetrating my eye lids as the water fills my ears.

It is a blissful, solitary moment.