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A Winter Holiday in TasmaniaBy Dot Butlerfrom The Bushwalker magazine 1961 |
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Inspired by the Himalayan party that had just
successfully climbed Everest, we Well, let me tell you all about it, lest you begin to think in terms of wholesale discomfort and shivering misery. It rain all right – and it snowed, and it sleeted, and it blizbarded, and it blew – a holiday so wet we might have been excused for growing a coating of moss on the south side, but that only happens to stones that have stopped rolling, and we hardly stopped once. Arriving at Cradle Mountain Reserve about sundown, all prepared to camp in "Snow’s" tent (too bad he had forgotten to bring his tent pegs), we were cordially greeted by Mac the Ranger, who said Waldheim Chalet was vacant, and we could stay there for 8/6 a night. We accepted this invitation with alacrity; thus, whatever the days might bring forth, we were assured of warm, dry nights. This was a great thing, but even greater was the deep sense of comradeship that permeated all our days at Waldheim- the sort of comradeship that fills you with warmth that physical old can’t touch. Built of rough-hewn native timber, Waldheim fits as naturally into its surroundings as grey lichen on a rock. Each year its ageing frame leans a little closer towards the earth that is its home. Some day, perhaps soon, it will fall to pieces, but when it has become one with the dark mould of the beech forest floor, we will think of it as of a dear, dear friend. All snugly ensconced within, we slept with our mattresses on the floor in front of a big fire and dreamed of what tomorrow might bring forth. Up at 6.30, "Snow" lit the kitchen range. We had breakfast, cut
lunches, and were away by 8.30, bound for Cradle Mountain. We tramped
along muddy tracks in shifting mist and low cloud, and over huge
snowdrifts thirty feet deep, from which we could see a gleam of lakes in
the distance. We practiced with ice axes, cutting steps up snow slopes
at steep angles, and kicking up and down snow faces and over a cornice.
Keith knew all the tricks, and Garth was pretty to watch, but "Snow" new
to all this, was like a gawky young puppy. As we approached Kitchen Hut, all we saw of it was the chimney poking through the drift. "Snow" gamboled ahead, and with great exuberance, dropped himself down the chimney. The next thing we hear is a wail from down under the snow, "I can’t get out!" We dragged him out, and as it was only eleven o’clock, decided to go and climb Little Horn, a sharp splinter of rock separated by a gap from the northeast end of Cradle Mountain. For a couple of hours we wallowed waist-deep through snow, which lay lightly on the low scrub at the base of Cradle. Imagine a howling gale, a snowstorm, and us, all aiming for the one target. It was a tie; we all reached the gap at the same time. An icy blast hit us. We put our heads down and made haste for the sheltered lee of Cradle. Here we ate our lunch standing up, stamping our wet feet in the snow, and trying to warm them. Although it didn’t look far to the summit of Little Horn, we decided we were too wet and cold and uncomfortable for any more, so wallowed back to Kitchen. "Ha!" said the weather, "I was only fooling you." The wind promptly dropped, it stopped snowing, and out came the sun. Well, wasn’t this mighty! The homing pigeons about faced and headed fro Cradle again. Only Keith was a bit dubious about all this, and when we started the familiar sinking-to-the-waist progression all over again, he decided he had had enough, so returned to Kitchen Hut. When we others got on to the steep slope of the mountain, the surface was harder, and instead of sinking, we now had to kick steps up the snow couloir. The summit ridge was well plastered, and on the sheltered side of the mountain were deep snow faces. We swung along with rising excitement, and at last reached the summit cairn. "Well," said Garth, quoting Hillary, "We knocked the bastard off." Said I, continuing the quotation, "The occasions seems to call for more than a formal handshake," so we put our arms round each others’ shoulders and jumped up and down on the summit of our own little Everest-three small figures under the sky and all the world was ours. There were photographs to be taken while the sum lit up the snowy peaks and shining lakes, then the mist came sweeping over and we began the descent. It was great fun glissading down the steep snow slopes, and so back to Kitchen Hut. Inside the hut, Keith had worn a deep circular track in the snow that had drifted inside, as he stamped round for several hours, waiting for us to return. We pulled him out through the chimney, and then followed our trodden tracks over the snowfields towards home. In the deepening twilight our eyes followed down Marion’s Track, over
the button grass flat with it meandering stream to the dark fringe of
beech forest, where Waldheim nestled in its nest of trees, a white
column of smoke drifting upwards-good old Mac had lit the fire for us,
and that meant hot water for baths. While still floundering through the
button grass swamp, we drew straws to see who would have first bath, and
Keith was the lucky winner. Home at last. While Keith filled the bathroom up with steam, we others set about getting the tea ready. Keith had done a mighty job catering for this party; we had everything. Did we need rice and cabbage for "Snow’s" Foo Chow-it was there. Did we need celery, apple, onion, for our stuffed grouse-again, these were all available. That night we fed well, then sat in front of a big fire, our wet clothes draped all around to dry out, and listened while Garth read what was to be our nightly serial, "The Day of the Triffids." Outside, the possums scuffled about in the brown, damp leaves, the moon stole over the snowy stillness, and when at length it peeped through the skylight, it saw us all sound asleep in front of the fire. Next day, we were hit by a low, despite a favourable weather forecast. We looked out the kitchen window to see Mac’s wallabies patiently bearing the continuous rain and wind, but we stayed inside and set our hands to some fancy cooking. Keith made a super chocolate icing cake; I made a couple of baked puddings; and "Snow’s" piece de resistance was a marvelous piece of conglomerate called Foo Chow. But after a late breakfast, could we do it justice? It seemed a pity to have no appetite for all this luxury food, but it also seemed a pity to go out for some exercise and get our only outdoor clothes drenched again after spending all night drying them out. The problem was solved for me by putting on my boots and Speedo swim costume, and hurtling out into the gale for a run. Down the road to the four-mile signpost and back through snow and sleet did something for the appetite, and speaking for myself, I can say lunch was a good meal. Garth and "Snow" went out later to work off the effects with a walk to Dove Lake, and Keith took his exercise vicariously by reading South Col. Looking out the window hopefully next morning, what do we see? More rain, wind and falling snow. But did that deter us after yesterday’s day of sloth? No, and we set out to reconnoiter the cirque which holds Cradle Mountain and Barn Bluff together. Down and over the little stream, where a poor washed-out wombat peered about with misty nocturnal eyes vainly trying to find shelter under the footbridge, then up Marion’s Track to the snowfields. And here we stepped into a strange world of cotton wool fog. In the windless silence we followed our faintly showing tracks of the preceding days, being grateful to Garth for having sunk in so deep and so often, thus verifying the route. Occasional glimpses of snow poles also helped. At Kitchen Hut we again got into an area of wind that dispersed the mist somewhat, and encouraged us to continue on towards the cirque and Barn Bluff. We battled along knee deep in drifts at the base of Cradle, which looked huge and like the West Peak of Mt Earnslaw (NZ) through the driving snow. A gale force wind, shouting at our backs, pushed us along and filled the air with icy drift. "It’s going to be hell when we turn around," was at the back of my thoughts all the while. At last we came to a small thicket of trees where we hoped to have lunch, but there was no shelter from the wind, so we didn’t even try to get out our food, but decided to return to Kitchen to eat. And so we turned our faces into the sweeping fury of the blizzard. The blinding drift froze up our nostrils so we couldn’t breath. By pulling our goggles low, closing up our parka hoods, and breathing warm air from the mouth into the hood, our nostrils thawed out and we fought out way back, half blinded, our parkas and ground sheets whipping madly round us with whiplash cracks that echoed like bullet shots past our ears. Back in comparative calm of Kitchen Flat, somewhat chastened by our experience in the storm, we hardly felt like eating. Waldheim was calling… Hot baths! Warm fires! Dry clothes! Ah… The late sun shivered through a break in the scudding clouds as we slopped our way back, water trickling down between singlet and skin, sodden pants clinging to our knees making walking difficult. We wriggled our toes in the icy mush in our boots. Being dry was hardly a memory now. We sidetracked to have a look at Crater Lake. We were having a little argument with "Snow" as to whether we could get wetter than wet, and Garth was getting all technical about detergents. "Snow" didn’t think it was possible. As he gestulated to drive home his point, he slipped into the lake. He emerged the colour of pumice. Whether he was wetter than wet, he didn’t say, and it would have been unkind of us to ask, but he was certainly clod. He shot of like a rocket for home and a hot bath. We followed, and before long we were savouring the luxury of being warm and dry. We took it in turns reading out a chapter each of our serial till tea time (that was the night we had stuffed grouse and baked vegetables), then found the suspense was getting so great we had to read on after tea till 10.30. In spite of our day’s exertions we felt reluctant to go to bed, so we sat talking till 1am. We woke at 9am. Snowing and high wind. We left late at about 11, but that didn’t worry us; we felt by now we had got the measure of the weather – bad in the mornings, tending to clear by midday. Mac had given us the key and rowlocks of the boat at Dove Lake. We clambered round the walls of the flooded boathouse and inside, to find the boat half submerged. We put things shipshape and pushed out, getting our feet good and wet in the process. Who cares; what are dry feet anyway? Snow was falling, partly veiling the rugged walls all around. Great
gusts of wind would swoop down at unexpected moments and deal the boat a
mighty blow. Rain and snow beat in our faces and eyes and got down our
mouths every time we opened them to say, "Gee isn’t this great!" With
all these hazards to contend with, the pattern of our progress was a
tortuous zigzag, and the wonder was we got anywhere without being sunk.
Peering through the falling snow we at last saw the white trail of the
landing stage at the distant end of the lake, and managed to get there
and tie up the boat. What a country of contrasts this is. Leaving the cold and gusty lakeshore, we entered a dense beech forest- a world of utter silence, where the only sound was the muffled plop of snow falling from burdened branches. We emerged from the deep timber, and there were the rocks of Little Horn, and there again were the rain, the sleet and the snow. We had a realy exciting climb up a crisp couloir lying steeply between black fangs of rock. There were magnificent views from the summit, but there were also frustrated photographers, as it was too dull for colour. And now we were coming down again and on the homeward run. We took a slightly different route, following a little stream strong with winter, which tumbled along its rocky course under a beech tree canopy, and so back to the windy lake. Our morning’s practice at the oars had done nothing to improve our style, and we zig-zagged back to the boatshed and from there ran back to Waldheim to warm up. Then followed the daily procedure of wringing out our sopping clothes and draping them round the fires to dry. A hot bath, dry clothes, and lunch by a big fire at 4pm, a session of Triffids, and life was a grand affair. We had given up expecting fine weather, so we were pleasantly surprised when we woke late on Saturday morning to a reasonably calm day. We got out to Kiychen about 12 o’clock (by now you have guessed Kitchen Hut is the hub of most of our mountain climbs), and decided on a traverse of Cradle. A lovely day. Ours the joy of climbing to a mountain top; to gaze over a world of wonder and delight; to dream unutterable things and try to put them in words; to feel the fresh, keen air on our faces and the blood tingling warmly in our veins… We returned to Waldheim walking on air. And there we met Gawd. He had just come up for the weekend. Gawd was a depressing type, to whom the world was weary, flat, stale and uninspiring. The corners of his mouth drooped in a cureless pessimism. His every word was a blasphemy. He said he wouldn’t belong to a club and be ordered about. He said there was nothing good about Waldheim – its foundations, the original tree stumps, were perishing of wet rot; the kitchen annex should have never been built; the hot water system was useless. He said dear old Laz Pura, who had perished from exposure near Kitchen Hut some years previously, intending to commit suicide, else why had he signed the visitor’s book "L. Pura late SBW." We edged away from him as from a disease, and had our tea when he left the kitchen. And now its Sunday – our last day. We plan to climb Barn Bluff, and be back to catch a taxi out to Sheffield at 6pm. Gawd said, "Don’t be too utterly ridiculous; it can’t be done!" We woke and got up at dawn and were away about 1-½ hours later. With hard snow to walk on, we reached Kitchen in an hour – less than half the time previously taken – and then round the base of Cradle to the cirque. Soon a dense mist enveloped everyone as we groped our way along between snow poles. After a time there were no more snow poles to guide us, and the wind howling in the right ear all the time was the only indication that at least we were keeping our direction. "Snow" knew by the grace of Heaven where we were going, if no one else did. He headed off eventuently up a slight incline which couldn’t be seen to rise in the fog, only felt. I was now aware of the wind howling in my left ear, and couldn’t get rid of the idea that we were on the way back. "Snow" drew maps in the snow with his ice axe to show how thw cirque performs a big loop, but my brain couldn’t take it in. but of course "Snow" was right, and when, with miraculous swiftness the mist suddenly lifted, there we were, standing right at the base of Barn Bluff, which towered above us like a mighty castle. Mac had told us we were the first ever to climb Cradle in the winter, and he thought Barn Bluff also was waiting for a first winter ascent. Would we be the first? Would we not! We had a little bit of everything on that climb, even ice faces up with Garth led and cut steps for us. So to the summit. It was a perfectly fine day – the map of the reserve lay spread before us in all its topographical detail – the snow-dappled peaks of Cradle, Rowland, Oakleigh, Pelion East, Ossa, Pelion West, Frenchman’s Cap, Lyell, and a faint ethereal blue which was the ocean beyond Queenstown. Garth strode enthusiastically in all directions, taking the perfect photo, with "Snow’s" voice following him up, "Take one for me." ("Snow" had lost his camera at the start of the trip.) At last we left the top and climbed and slid and glissaded down again. It was now late afternoon. It was now late afternoon. Behind Barn Bluff, mighty streamers of light from the western sun radiated out into the endless blue, where a few clouds – wind flowers – had scattered their petals of gold light. We could not keep from looking back every few paces… ‘I have had my invitation to this world’s festival and so my life has been blessed; My eyes have seen and my ears have heard…" "well, it’s been a wonderful party," said I. "Who should we thank for All this?" "I know" said "Snow," and over the glowing hills his eager young voice rang out, "Thank you Hughie, for a glorious day. Back to Waldheim in time to have a hot bath, some tea, and be packed up ready for the taxi, which arrived at six. We carried our gear down and stowed it in the boot, and ourselves and ice axes inside. We turned round for one last look at Waldheim. "Ought to have a match put to it," said Gawd, but in our memories it will stay eternally embalmed – a mansion and a home. One last wave to Mac, standing there in his rugged gentlehood, genuine beaming from his face. We will come back again some day… Goodbye… Goodbye…
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decided that our nearest equivalent would be a mountaineering trip in
Tasmania. Keith organized the trip, and in the Clubroom, those who
weren’t able to go were, as is their custom, giving their opinion on
what the outcome might be: You’ll freeze! Why don’t you go north to the
Barrier Reef? Don’t forget your waterproof pants! Do you know how it
rains down there? Take you water wings! They’re going to camp in
"Snow’s" tent!!! (Maniacal laughter off stage.)
