A Smaller Grandeur

[Late season snow at Mt Mawson, Tasmania] 

Chamonix, Zermatt, Grindelwald, Mt Field. To borrow from Sesame Street, one of these things is not like the others. Yes, they are all associated with snow, and with skiing. But the similarities end there.

After returning from the grandeur of the French and Swiss Alps, you’d hardly be surprised if I raised a condescending smile at the mention of Tasmania’s snow, and the modest mountains – like Mt Field – that occasionally wear enough of it for skiing.

Still Mt Field is where I find myself when duty calls after some late season snow. I’m part of a group of about ten volunteers rostered on to run the tow and provide a ski patrol for the Mt Mawson run. We arrive early on a frosty and clear Saturday morning, stump up the “jeep track” from Lake Dobson, and are well-warmed even before the work starts.

The rope tow is a device that owes more to Heath Robinson than any 21^st – or even the 20^th – century technology. It comprises several hundred metres of thick rope; a set of poles, pulleys and wheels; more hundreds of metres of electricals; a few safety switches and a diesel powered engine/generator housed in a shed.

At times you run it literally: running from the generator shed to the stop buttons; from there to the top gate; from that to the ticket and belt-issue hut. In between there’s a lot of standing around, lending half an ear to any changes in the engine’s chugging; monitoring the occasional belch of soot; checking that skiers and snow-boarders aren’t getting tangled up anywhere.

[Skiing/snowboarding at Mt Mawson] 

The whole thing is a little like a men’s shed, but spread horizontally up the mountain. We volunteers are soon all on first name terms, sharing stories as well as tasks. We also get to know more than half of the skiers by name (there are only 30 or so). It’s my first time on tow duty, and the village feel and the all-in involvement is nothing like any ski resort I’ve ever been to. It’s certainly a million miles away from the slick hustle of somewhere like Zermatt, with its dozens of gondolas and cable cars; its high-altitude hotels; its thousands of visitors – even in summer.

[A fraction of Zermatt's ski infrastructure] 

After a few hours of dutiful running and standing around, I take some time out and wander with my camera into the backcountry. Wander doesn’t really convey it. It’s more of a giraffe stalk, legs lifting high in a vain attempt not to post-hole. The already insubstantial snow is softening in the warm sun, and every second step finds me up to my thighs in snow.

[Some of Mt Mawson's more intimate snow] 

Uphill is clearly not the way to go, so I try heading down and across the slope. Perhaps momentum and speed may allow me to glide across the surface like an elf. Immediately I fall into a waist deep drift, more legless than Legolas, and have to twist and roll sideways to extricate myself. Clearly without skis – or the snow-shoes that Tim remembered he’d forgotten about twenty minutes into our drive up – I’m not going very far.

I settle for what’s within easy reach, glad to be far enough from the ski tow that I can’t hear the burble of its engine. Snow, smooth and untrammelled lies silent between, against and around dolerite boulders. Snow gums and prickly bushes sprout clear of the snow, contrasting starkly. The sun angles down from a brilliantly blue sky, kissing the snow’s skin. There’s grandeur too in small scenes.

Not So Grand Designs

Around this time of the year, when the wind roars, and night eclipses day, a bushwalker’s fancy turns to huts. Yes it can be 20 degrees and sunny on the odd day, but snow and gales are also part of the mix. Despite having all the right gear, and being quite happy sleeping in a tent, when the autumn gales start blowing the dog off its chain, and soggy snow plasters the hills, I clearly see the advantages of mountain huts.

[Joe Slatter Hut nestled into the wooded slopes of Mt Rufus] 

Some bushwalkers even make hut finding a bit of a game. In New Zealand hut-bagging, where the goal is to visit the greatest number of huts possible, is a semi-serious pastime. Of course the Shaky Isles do have huts numbering in four figures, with the Department of Conservation alone managing 950 of them!

In Tasmania we’re relatively poverty stricken, having well short of 100 public structures that could – even by generous definition – be called a hut. (The Kosciuszko Hut Association, which maintains information on many eastern Australian huts, has around 100 Tasmanian structures on its database. However a number of these are are private, or no longer standing, or more shelters than huts. See http://www.khuts.org/ for further information.)

From a practical point of view, a hut’s ability to (usually) keep you dry and out of the wind might seem reason enough to visit one. But there’s also the sheer human curiosity that’s aroused by structures that other humans build. Witness the phenomenal television success of Kevin McLeod’s “Grand Designs”, which mines both the aspirations and the deeper psyche of home builders.

When it comes to huts, there’s the whole deeper layers of its history. Who made it? When? What did they use? How long did it take? Why did they build it in the first place? It’s enough the stir the dormant historian; the nascent archaeologist; the just plain curious walker into investigating.

[The facade of Joe Slatter Hut declares its origins] 

 And so I am visiting Joe Slatter Hut, on the side of Mt Rufus in the Lake St Clair area. For years I’ve walked all around the area, and have known of, but never been to this particular hut. We’re not here just out of curiosity though. We’re on a working bee, doing some much-needed repair work on Joe’s old hut.

Burdened by ferociously heavy packs – wooden posts, car jacks, buckets of nails and pots of paint are cheek-by-jowl with all our normal walking gear – we head off uphill. It’s raining, of course. But given that our group of a dozen or more includes children who are also happy labourers, I suck it up and trudge on.

Over the weekend I get to hear many stories about the hut. It began in the years immediately after World War 2. These were the golden era for hydro-electric development in Tasmania, and highland villages like Tarraleah, Bronte Park and Butlers Gorge each housed hundreds of workers and their families, many of them European immigrants. One naturalisation ceremony in 1949 was attended by 6 000 people!

Coming from Europe, many of the villagers were used to snow. And with snow conditions far better than they are at present, skiing was a favoured recreational pastime. As there were no skiing facilities, these very practical people decided to make their own. Mt Rufus was considered the best of the local ski slopes, so they formed the Rufus Ski Club. Joe Slatter, as resident engineer in the Hydro village of Butlers Gorge and a keen skier, became president of the ski club. He was heavily involved in its planning and construction. By the early 50s the two room hut, that now bears Joe’s name, had been built. All the labour was volunteer, and done in spare time. Every piece of material was carried in by hand, albeit with some help from ponies.

[Autumn bark on Eucalyptus subcrenulata, near Joe Slatter Hut]

The club had grand designs. The lower hut could accommodate up to twenty people, with bunks, benches, cooking utensils and a fireplace. Further up the mountain, the smaller Gingerbread Hut – which got its name from the colour of its early cladding – was built as the base for a ski tow that would allow skiers access to the upper slopes.

A recent log book entry (from “Kris”, February 2011) gives a flavour of the hut in the 1950s.

My mother remembers coming here on an expedition with some friends from Tarraleah to go skiing. She remembers starting the walk at 01:00am and arriving at the hut as the sun was coming up. They were carrying their skis and all their gear through the snow. She remembers having to cross a large creek over a log which was particularly difficult with ski gear.

Despite such hardships – or perhaps because of their determination to push through them – it seemed to club members that Mt Rufus would be the next big thing for southern Tasmanian skiers.

It didn’t turn out that way. From the mid 1950s hydro-electric construction waned, and the population of the highlands melted away. Snowfall became too irregular to maintain the skiers’ enthusiasm. Admitting defeat, the Rufus Ski Club amalgamated with the Wellington Ski Club, which now maintains both of the Rufus huts.

Skiing is now a relative rarity on Rufus, and even then skiers are unlikely to stay in Joe Slatter Hut. But occasionally walkers visit the hut. They might marvel at its straw filled mattresses and pillows; wonder at the 200m hose that once delivered creek water to the hut; ponder the floor’s lack of horizontality; turn their noses up at the inevitable animal droppings; and even make a donation to its upkeep.

[Always time for a brew, even during a busy working bee] 

And just maybe they might wonder who Joe Slatter was. For there is a sad twist to the naming of the hut. It was named in honour of the ex-Rufus Ski Club president after he was struck and killed by a train in Melbourne in the 1950s.

When we 21^st century volunteers learn that, it feels all-the-more fitting that we should add a lick of paint, and have a go at re-stumping and generally tidying up Joe’s old hut. It’s never going to be a palace, but it would be good to think the tradition of Joe and other hut building pioneers can be carried on a little longer, even if their grand skiing schemes have melted away.

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.