Overlandish Part 1: Water, Water Everywhere

We’re staggering as we reach Marions Lookout. It’s the first day of a planned winter trip through Tasmania’s Overland Track, so that’s not surprising. We’ve all been here before, so we're expecting this to be our hardest day, with its almost immediate 450 metre elevation gain. Also our packs are at their heaviest, our bodies at their unfittest, and it’s winter.

[What Marions Lookout can be like on a fine winter's day] 

Yet none of these factors rates a mention. Nothing does. Rather we’re being pounded by heavy horizontal rain and blown off our feet by gale force winds. Communication is brief and shouted at close range, and just moving forward is a solid effort.

I should have seen the signs. First there was our local barometer, that sure predictor of foul weather that is Hobart’s Constitution Dock. If the fishing boats are all tied up in there, you can bet there’s unfavourable weather on its way across the state. That or it’s Christmas.

But being preoccupied with three weeks of full-time grandparenting, in between frantic food preparation for the walk, I’ve failed to notice the number of boats in the docks. So we’re already at Cradle Mountain by the time I read some cautionary weather words from a facebook friend. “Actually its gonna go easterly with a vengeance, according to my fisherman brother”.

[The offending weather map] 

Armed only with the weather bureau’s forecast map, with its two conjoined lows over Bass Strait and talk of “up to 30mm of rain” on Sunday, our attitude has been “how wet could it be?” During Saturday night, tucked up in a cabin at Waldheim, we start to have that question answered. It rains heavily all night, so heavily that even the 50 metre dash from the cabin to the toilet soaks us. There’s wind too, ‘though nothing too frightening.

So on Sunday morning the four of us set off. It’s raining steadily, and by the time we’re climbing past Crater Falls, the water flow is thunderous. As we ascend beyond Crater Lake, the wind is strong enough to make waves on the lake, and it’s buffeting us as we clamber up Marions Lookout. At least it’s coming from the north-east, making our ascent somewhat wind assisted.

[A bit of water: Crater Falls] 

That silver lining disappears as we top out. On the open plateau walking a straight line becomes impossible. At times the wind picks us up and deposits us where we hadn’t meant to go. The rain seeks out any exposed skin, stings our faces, wheedles its way through our waterproofs, into our boots. It doesn’t stop with us. Any surface, any track that isn’t boardwalk, is fast becoming a creek. We invoke Coleridge’s “The Rime of the Ancient Mariner”.

Water, water, every where,
And all the boards did shrink;
Water, water, every where,
Nor any drop to drink.

We hasten as best we can towards the emergency shelter at Kitchen Hut. There at least we’ll be out of the wind and rain, and able to talk. But shelter turns out to be a relative thing even inside the tiny hut. The wind and rain are forcing their way under the door and through the vent above the window. We have an uncomfortable 10 minute break; grab something to eat and drink; chat about the weather (what else!)

My older brother Ian is a relative newcomer to overnight walking. This is proving to be a baptism of … well, not so much fire, as wind and water. He’s looking none too happy, not that any of us is exactly thrilled with what we’re facing. At least it’s not cold. Larry tells us it’s 7.7 degrees C.

[Unhappy campers shelter in Kitchen Hut] 

Just a little refreshed, we determine to push on to Waterfall Valley, sure that it will be more sheltered – once we get there. But when we open Kitchen Hut’s door, it’s like facing a hurricane. Our resolve immediately wobbles. That’s compounded when, ascending the slope that leads from Kitchen Hut to Cradle Cirque, the track becomes a full-blown creek. Ian let’s out an incredulous “What??”. There’s probably more … along the lines of “We’re going up there??” … but the wind tears away any other words. Mick looks at me with an expression that says "If this is what it takes to get to the hut, this is what we’ll have to go through."

The wind and rain don’t let up for a minute, and this roughest part of the track – even on fine days – becomes a watery steeplechase. Every windswept step is a lottery. Will our foot land on that rock, or will we be blown into the water or into a bush? How long before we twist an ankle or slip into a mire? It’s frightening, exhausting work.

Larry and I had earlier talked about the concept of packrafting. Now I'm seriously thinking that someone could packraft down this track more easily than we’re walking it. If the track is a creek, then every creek is a torrent, and some bridges have water flowing over them. We push on until Larry suggests we stop for a conference. Clearly my brother is unnerved by the conditions, and we talk through the options. Given that the walk back to Cradle would be straight into this gale, we decide to continue on to Waterfall Valley as fast as we can. We’ll be able to assess our situation better when we’re safe and dry.

After much muttering, stumbling struggle, we make the turnoff that leads from Bluff Cirque towards Waterfall Valley. In a preview of the valley, the edge of the cirque is festooned with miniature waterfalls. It's more akin to Fiordland than Tasmania. Some of the falls are being blown back into the air, defying both their name and gravity due to the strong winds.

[Waterfall Valley Hut with an impromptu creek beneath it] 

Finally we make the end of the plateau and start descending towards Waterfall Valley. The tempest around us seems perfect for invoking yet another romantic poem. This time it’s Tennyson’s “The Charge of the Light Brigade”.

Into the valley of Death

Rode the six hundred

We hope we’re as wrong about the death part as we are about the number. And so it proves when the four of us finally pull open the very welcoming door to Waterfall Valley Hut. From the dim interior, a dozen surprised faces turn towards us, looking like they’re seeing madmen. They’re not completely wrong.

Cycling the Clare Valley: Part 2

Gingerly. That’s how three of us mounted our bikes the next morning. One of us didn’t even get that far. Liz had suffered during the night, her leg muscles cramping badly.

[On the Trail again, Day 2] 

But we had a plan. Firstly her bike needed upgrading, as its sticking gears were the main cause of her problems. A call to the bike hire place resulted in a bike swap. But the bonus was that they would also give Liz a lift to Sevenhill, saving her the morning’s uphill climb. We would meet her in the small town of Sevenhill for morning coffee.

[Heading back to the Trail through the historic Sevenhill vineyard] 

By the time we’d pedalled up the hill, we’d hardly earned that refreshment break. But we didn’t let that stop us having a long and relaxing break. When all four of us resumed riding, we were pleased to see that Liz’s bike change had made a difference. We rode back up to the trail, and straight across it to the Sevenhill winery.

Lynne and I had visited this place in the late 1970s, and all I remembered was that it was run by members of the Jesuit order. As we rode up the beautifully cared for grounds of the old winery, nothing looked familiar except the imposing sandstone chapel.

[The chapel at Sevenhill Winery] 

The Jesuits (aka The Society of Jesus) have always fascinated me. The order was founded by St Ignatius of Loyola in 1540. He was anything but a plaster saint. Born into a well-to-do family in the Basque region of Spain, he grew into a strutting and somewhat vain nobleman. He turned to soldiering for the glory it might give him. After being severely wounded he had a religious conversion, and decided to be a “hero” in the style of St Francis of Assisi, devoting his life to helping others. He eventually developed the “Spiritual Exercises”, a compilation of meditations, prayers, and contemplative practices. They are still used by millions nearly five centuries later.

Jesuit intellectual rigour, and their habit of remaining involved in everyday life, also appealed to me. The mayhem of the cellar-door – with people standing literally three or four deep for wine tastings and sales – was somehow off-set by the knowledge that proceeds from sales funded Jesuit charitable work in Australia and Asia.

[Bikes and palm in the grounds of Sevenhill Wines] 

Having “contributed” generously to their work, we rode on. We were already a little late for our lunch at O’Leary Walker Wines. But hurrying seemed wrong somehow, on this beautifully fine day, with nothing but a few strands of cirrus cloud to off-set the brilliantly blue sky. Even better: after Penwortham it was also mostly downhill.

[Cellar dwellers at Sevenhill Wines] 

If we were late for lunch, the folk at O’Leary Walker didn’t seem in the least perturbed. They showed us to an outside table, and supplied us with some welcome cold water. And then some sumptuous tasting plates, with wine of course. The expansive views across rolling hills covered in a patchwork of autumn-tinged vines completed the picture.

[Reluctantly leaving O'Leary Walker Wines] 

The shadows were already lengthening by the time we took to our bikes for the final push on to Auburn. That was less than 5km, and with our bodies now tuned to the bikes, it took no time at all. 

[On the Trail between Leasingham and Watervale]

We’d called the bike man, and he just beat us back to our hotel for the bike collection. We’d made it: Auburn to Clare and back, via quite a few by-ways, and rather more vineyards. That left tomorrow for a bit more exploration of the valley by car. There were still plenty of places we hadn’t been to, and I guess you could say we’d developed a bit of a taste for the wonderful Clare Valley. Cheers!

[Tigerlily the cat assists with tastings at Crabtree Wines] 

Cycling the Clare Valley: Part 1

We’re driving north of Adelaide on a warm, dry autumn day. The flat, straw coloured landscape is more parched than usual following a long, hot summer. How, we wonder, can a world famous wine district exist in the unpromisingly dry and low hills ahead of us?

[On the Riesling Trail]  

There’s a bright side. The relative lack of hills suggests easy cycling. And that’s one of the main reasons we’re here. That and the wine. After a little more than two hours we arrive in Auburn. It’s not quite sunset, so there’s time to sort out our accommodation before dinner. We’d expected our hire bikes to be at the hotel. But not for the first time, we find arrangements around here are “relaxed”.

The bikes turn up in good time the next morning, and we’re briefed on the cycling trail ahead of us. It goes by the promising name of The Riesling Trail, and follows an old railway route between Auburn and Clare. We’re on a self-guided trip, with bikes, accommodation, luggage transfers and some meals organised by the Tour de Vines company. Once our bikes and helmets are fitted, we’re off into the morning chill – all of 50 metres to the coffee shop. They did say it was self-guided, and Andrew must have his caffeine hit before the day goes on!

["Hard-earned" stop? Our start is visible 50m behind us.] 

The vineyards commence soon after we do. Although the cycle trail is dry and a little dusty, the vines are surprisingly lush. Some have had over 150 years to get used to the region’s Mediterranean climate: dry and hot in summer; cooler and wetter in winter. Despite their age the vines are blushing with autumn colours. We too are red-of-face as we pump our legs and expand our lungs with unexpected effort. It’s strange how an incline of 1.5% can make you work.

It’s strange too how the names of places and wineries we’re passing are so familiar to me, a relative late-comer to wine drinking. We wobble past signs to Leasingham and its vineyards, but don’t resist the turn-off to Watervale. It may not be midday yet, but we’re up for refreshments, which Shut the Gate Wines supply with style. As we stand at the bar for a tasting, we hear the kind of talk we’ll get used too over the next few days.

[Among Clare Valley's blushing vines] 

It’s not just about grape varieties and vintages, but aspects, micro-climates, minerals and more. It also seems “soils-ain’t-soils”. The depth, type and mineral make up of the soils contributes characteristics to the wines which even we can discern. We thank Richard for the informative tasting – which included cheese and biccies – and promise to be back in a few days to buy some wines. We’re not keen to weigh down our panniers with too much just yet.

[The Old Grammar School, Watervale] 

We have to ride uphill to get back up to the trail, although the fascinating buildings of Watervale give us an excuse to do that slowly. Then it’s on to Penwortham. And now the landscape tightens up, and there’s a greener tinge to everything. It’s the high point of the trail, so higher rainfall might be expected.

[Dining al fresco at Skillogalee, Clare Valley] 

Lunch is booked for us at Skillogalee Wines, a bracing downhill ride from the trail. We don’t want to think about what that means for our post-lunch ride, but it becomes a long, languid lunch, and the wonderful food and setting of Skillogalee fuels us for any coming pain. So too does a stop at beautiful Kilikanoon Wines.

[Autumn at Kilikanoon Wines] 

After the pain of regaining the trail is endured, we cross over the high point and make a downhill beeline for Clare. It’s not quite as simply done as written, and it’s not all downhill. But as the afternoon shadows stretch out, we close in on our overnight stop. And stop is what we do, glad in both heart and buttocks! We only hope we’ll be able to ride again in the morning.