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.

 

Melaleuca: Down the River of Time

That night we play cards in the ranger’s hut: a game of “Up and Down the River”. Despite my ignorance of the rules, I finish equal second, almost clinching a card-shark reputation.

On the walk back to my Nissen Hut a full moon sails clear of cloud. I take my camera down to Moth Creek to try and photograph her reflections. I always seem to think of the moon as feminine. The creek is wide and still, and the moon reflects perfectly from its molten, dark surface. But my photographs fail to capture her wonderful light and alluring face. Some faces just resist being well photographed. I suppose that’s what memory is for.

The molten surface of Moth Creek, Melaleuca, SW Tasmania 

Though I’m standing on a modern jetty, the moon reminds me that this area holds far older stories. It's highly plausible to view this whole south-west landscape as an artefact of Aboriginal burning over 30-40 000 years. Looking at the broad expanses of buttongrass, and the relatively small patches of forest, it makes sense.

Buttongrass thrives under a regime of regular, if small scale, firing. If its left unburned, scrub and then forest start to assert themselves over moorland. With rainfall as high as what is received here, you would, under other circumstances, expect to find much more rainforest. Indeed you do find it along rivers and in sheltered patches, but it’s not as expansive as it might be.

Why did Aboriginal Tasmanians burn this country? Two reasons stand out. Firstly fire in buttongrass moorland is followed by strong regrowth, and this “green-pick” attracts grazing animals. They are more easily seen, and more easily hunted, when concentrated in a small recently-burned patch. Secondly a burned landscape is easier to move through than a scrub-covered one. That’s good for a nomadic people, as any bushwalker could confirm!

A well-fed pademelon: one marsupial favoured by the selective burning of moorland 

The so-called “conciliator of Aborigines”, G.A. Robinson, walked through this area with his party in 1830. Whatever harm his attempts to round-up and resettle the original Tasmanians might have done, he seems to have been motivated by a genuine concern for them as human beings. This, remember, occurred during a time of martial law in an often lawless colony. Life was cheap, and the lives of natives, for some, ranked below that of livestock. The impact and worth of Robinson's missions may be vigorously debated, for sure. But on a purely physical level, his journeys through this country were extraordinary.

For over four months, Robinson and a party of up to 20, journeyed from Recherche Bay in the south-east to the far south-west and west coasts. They walked first along what are now the South Coast and Port Davey Tracks, at the time either untracked or Aboriginal routes. They then travelled to places as fearful - and exciting - to bushwalkers as the Western Arthur Range and the west coast between Window Pane Bay and Macquarie Harbour.

An aerial view of the rugged Western Arthur Range in fine weather! 

Robinson kept a detailed journal, at times accutely describing the ruggedness and beauty of the landscape; at others bemoaning the numerous illnesses, personnel difficulties and weather set-backs of the summer/autumn trip. An excerpt from 10 March 1830, gives a flavour.

Here nature appeared in all her pristine forms; perpendicular cliffs, immense chasms through which the water was heard to gush with frightful roar, mountain tops hid in the clouds, and anon the piercing wind gushing up the ravines rendered our situation truly uncomfortable.

I continued still very unwell. Yet there was no alternative; to decline was useless. No medical assistant, no friend near to soothe or to offer consolation. The night excessive cold.

While the party was occasionally re-supplied by boat, it was otherwise self-sufficient. I marvel at this mixed group of British and Aboriginal men making such a journey without all the 'survival' gear modern walkers count essential. But then Robinson and co. had both the assistance of the 'natives' (as they called them) and the psychological goad of not wanting to concede to 'weakness' in front of the same.

The dubious reputation of Robinson within the contemporary Tasmanian Aboriginal community is tempered for some by the detailed observations he made of Aboriginal life, beliefs and customs in the 1830s. While he may not always be trusted as accurate, there are precious few other contemporary accounts.

We've noted already that Robinson saw many Aboriginal huts around Melaleuca, and that the area appeared to be a “resort” for the Needwonee people. Apart from having a good supply of water, game and especially swan's eggs, the area between Melaleuca and Cox Bight also appears to have had a strong spiritual significance. 

Through conversation with his Aboriginal companions, Robinson learned that one of their central creation stories took place here. In that tale one of the ancestor spirits, Moinee, “was hurled from heaven and dwelt on the earth, and died and was turned into a stone and is at Coxes Bight.” This is probably at Point Eric, in the middle of the bight.

Visiting this broad, bleak and beautiful landscape, it is not difficult to see its special significance. The river of time has touched this place over a very long period, with little else to obliterate its work. Before the Moinee story, before Cox Bight even existed, sea levels were much lower than they are today. The Needwonee’s ancestors would have walked over land to what are now the De Witt and Maatsuyker Islands, but what would then have been hills.

The river flows back further still. Before humans, there were other animals. During our visit we see many birds, including wonderfully cryptic ground parrots, and some mammals, especially pademelons. We find evidence of many more: a ringtail possum dray in a tree; wombat droppings; echidna scratchings. All of these have lived here, and in landscapes that have now worn away, for millions rather than thousands of years.

Where's Wallicus? Can you find the ground parrot (Pezoporus wallicus) in this picture? 

But that too is an eye-blink in geological time. The quartzite that is the foundation of much of the south-west is Precambrian rock perhaps one billion years old. The moon is around four billion years old, the earth itself older still, and the river of time flows back beyond that.

That night, as I stare at the moon reflecting from the surface of Moth Creek, I ponder the whole nature of time and space, and what is behind it all. Some, like me, sense a mind … even a heart. Some sense nothing at all. But both are ready to be awed and humbled by that experience. Better that than never stopping to reflect at all.

Mere Words: Can Nature Writing Make a Difference?

[Photo: Buttongrass showing off its "mad metronome" stalks]

[The award speech for the 2009 Wildcare Tasmania Nature Writing Prize - adapted from a presentation given at the Wildcare Conference.]

I want you to come with me over the back of our mountain. With strong wings we can be in the far south-west in maybe 30 minutes. Once there we find a tweedy buttongrass moorland sprouting from the sodden ground all around us.

It is blustery, and the top-heavy buttongrass stalks wobble like mad metronomes to the wind’s wild music. As we walk we see that this tawny buttongrass carpets every valley out here. It laps up against the odd crag, smothers all more rounded eminences, and relents a little only in the creases and crevices. There it shares some space with scrubbier, woodier species, conceding a few contrasting greener swatches.

Extracting our boots out of yet another coffee-coloured bog, we are startled by a sudden rush of wings. A brownish/greenish blur arcs across the track, at a low trajectory, and settles deep into the buttongrass some 20 metres ahead. We walk towards it, but each time we approach, it repeats its ground-hugging aerobatics, doing so for well over a kilometre. In all that time, despite having a good bead on the whereabouts of the bird, we never actually spot it on the ground before it takes flight.

What we are following is, of course, a ground parrot (Pezoporus wallicus). It’s one of only three ground-dwelling parrots in the world, and is the species we have come here to see, and to help protect. Our team is an alliance of can-do, hands-on types, including rangers, scientists, land managers and people from potential funding and support bodies.

While the ground parrot is not an endangered species, it is rare, being found only in a few isolated places around the Australian coast. The heedless tread of human feet is one of its major threats. So, ironically, we’re walking here to see what can be done to protect a bird from people walking here.

Earlier advice has recommended that a boardwalk of parallel planking will help keep walkers on track and away from the ground-nesting birds. Our group agrees that this looks like a good project proposal, and funding is likely to result.

But let’s pause the scenario at this point. I want you to notice two things. One is that a worthy and practical conservation proposal is about to be funded – in an ideal world at least. Once the money is given, the professionals will get busy, and the volunteers will add their considerable weight to the cause, via bird observation, field assistance, administrative help and so forth.

But the other thing to notice is that a story is being shared about a place and a species that someone cares about. And the story involves putting into words, perhaps for the first time, something of how some of us really feel about a creature and its place. That is what nature writing is about: carefully and lovingly putting into words some of our connections with nature, whether in the wilds or in the cities and towns in which most of us live. It sounds straightforward, but in this country it is as rare as Pezoporus wallicus.

And that is part of the story behind this prize. The Wildcare Tasmania Nature Writing Prize is seeking to make words about nature a more central – dare I say more natural – part of our writing. It is about prompting us to find words – considered and caring words – about a natural world that gently insists we ignore or mistreat it at our peril. And it’s also about seeing Tasmania, this little island where wilderness is literally just over the mountain, as an eminently suitable place for a word-led resurgence of such thinking.