The Not-So-Plain Plains: Part 1

How do I describe this place? I could try starting with the sound, or the seeming lack of it. Not that the forest is silent. Even in the dead of night there’s a faint thrum. Is it my own blood pulsing, or is it water softly whispering down the slope? The hoarse squeal of a squabbling possum briefly pierces the profound quiet. And when a strong wind arrives, the trees tut and shoosh at the interruption.

[One of the enormous pencil pines in the forest]

Might it be easier to talk about the light? Again I struggle. Even in the daytime the light is so low that an old light meter would scarcely register it. Yet it’s a darkness with shades and flecks, some murky, some hinting at an emerald shimmer. Just occasionally a beam of sunlight struggles through the foliage, only to retreat like a messenger at the wrong address. 

 

Then there’s what I can feel with hands, feet and face. My tent is pitched so close to a moss and lichen-draped tree trunk, that when I clamber out I can’t help but brush its damp softness. I can almost taste forest, unless it’s just its deep, damp-duff, pine-inflected scent.  

 

[Our forest campsite]

All of this might give the impression that I’m experiencing sensory overload. But no, it’s just how it is in a pencil pine forest, the type of forest we might all know and love, were we not so otherwise attuned. The type of forest that is becoming rarer as the decades pass, as heat, drought, neglect and fire take their toll. A fear of that might add to my deeply felt response to the forest. But whatever the rational explanation, this forest is simply one of the most soul-filling places I’ll ever visit.

[Starting on the Arm River Track]

But I should take us back to the start of the day, because places like this are inevitably hard won. And just getting here usually has its own story. I’d previously much enjoyed my two or three trips to the northern part of the February Plains, each time with Tim D. But for all its charms, the area shows many signs of human use and abuse, including intense fires, over-grazing and deforestation. In leading this walk, Tim must have decided it’s time we saw some less impacted parts of the Februaries.

 

We start on the Arm River Track, a formerly quiet track that has slowly become a much frequented short-cut to the centre of the Overland Track at the Pelion Plains. Most recently it’s also become the third day of some commercial trips on the Overland Track, following the loss to wildfire of a (private) hut and some trackwork in February 2025.

[Overland Track mountains, incl Pelion East and Ossa, from the Februaries]

There’s no disguising the uphill trend. We’re soon sweating our way up the long section of switch-backs that take up steeply up towards Lake Price, and our first mountain. Mt Pillinger is something of an outlier; not quite an Overland Track mountain, nor part of the nearby Cathedral Plateau. We cross the bridge over the Wurragarra Creek and pause for lunch in a grassy clearing off to the side of the track. 

[Mt Pillinger peeps out beside the Arm River Track]

[A pause near Lake Price]

Tim has been reassuring Libby that once we’ve left this busy-ish track, we will be heading off-track where, he says, “0.5% of walkers will ever go”. Libby, who’s very fond of remote and un-peopled wilderness, smiles and gives Tim a thumbs up. But as we’re eating lunch, a walker wanders up the Arm River Track. We give a friendly wave, and he comes off the track towards us, presumably just to say a quick hello. 

[Lunch near the Arm River Track]

We soon ask him where he’s headed, and are suitably shocked – and some of us amused – when he says “The February Plains”. We quickly explain why we’ve broken into sudden laughter. We share a bit of information on possible routes, and Ned (not his real name) walks off up-valley towards some formidable looking scrub. Before we’ve packed up from lunch he’s back, having found no way through the tangled bush. He asks if he can join us as we try to find our way up to the plateau. Shortly afterwards Ned must be wondering whether it’s the blind leading the blind, as our own “route” is very rough, steep and scrubby. We push uphill through scarcely yielding scrub for about 90 minutes before the slope finally eases, and the scrub becomes relatively thin. 

[... and the scrub finally yields]

We’ve been on our feet for more than 5 hours, nearly all of it uphill, some of it in gnarly scrub. Keen to find a campsite doesn’t fully express it! As we dump our packs to do a search, Ned says he'll keep walking. He’s wanting to camp as close to Mount Oakleigh as he can. Tim looks over the map with him before we wave “Mr. 0.5%” farewell, and start our own search in the vicinity of a nearby lake, one of the few in this area with a name. 

[Tim and Ned check the map]

After close to an hour, we eventually choose a large, thick pencil pine forest. There is a sunnier, more exposed lake-side camp nearby, but as we’re expecting strong winds in a day or two, we’ve chosen to have a protected campsite for all three nights. And protected it is, as well as hinting at being the above-mentioned soul-filling place. We’ll find that out later, but for now our order of business is simple: stop, set up camp, eat, sleep.

[Sunset and moonrise near our camp]

Return December?

[This post was originally published in Forty South Tasmania, Issue 115, Summer 2025. I wrote it before the summer of 2024/25, but reproduce it here in response to the terrible wildfires that have ravaged Tasmania's West Coast for much of February 2025. I am deeply saddened that this is happening, and is likely to keep happening in future summers. One reality of climate change as we will experience it in Tasmania, will be the devastation of some of our irreplaceable fire-sensitive species.]

[A hazard reduction burn in nearby bushland]

Among Elvis Presley’s many gifts, the articulation of lyrics wasn’t foremost. That at least was my excuse for miss-hearing the title of his 1962 hit “Return To Sender”. I was sure he was singing “Return December”. And why wouldn’t anyone long for the return of the first month of summer, with its long days of sun, sand, cricket and, of course, Christmas? Back in my childhood it seemed impossible to be downbeat about summer. I gleefully anticipated the return of December.
 
How things have changed! Lately, I’ll confess, I’m close to dreading summer. It’s as though the very thing I’ve longed for has turned on me, like a beloved dog that suddenly bites. The source of much of this angst is bushfires. While summers in southern Tasmania have always come with the threat of bushfires, climate change has magnified that threat. Compared with late 20^th century figures, Hobart can expect to nearly double its number of hot days (maximums >30 °C) by the mid-21^st century. That’s an increase from 4 or 5 days per year to 8 days per year. At the same time our rainfall average is declining. 
 
Such conditions greatly increase the risk of lightning strike without rain, a phenomenon  more commonly associated with the drier, hotter parts of mainland Australia. Lightning has always been in Tasmania’s weather mix, but usually within rain-producing storms. Rain might continue to come with storms, but in warmer and drier conditions it will often evaporate before it reaches the ground. And lightning on dry bush is a recipe for disaster.

[Lightning strike photographed by me during a visit to Hokkaido, Japan]

This risk is not just a hypothetical future projection. Quite abruptly, since the year 2000, Tasmania has seen a sharp rise in the number of fires ignited by dry lightning. And these fires last longer and burn larger areas. Last century long-burn fires caused by lightning strike were a rarity. Now Tasmania has experienced such fires most summers so far this century.  

The summer bushfires of 2018/2019 serve as a startling example. They began in late December 2018, when dry lightning strikes ignited several fires in the Tasmanian highlands. Thousands more dry strikes occurred on January 16 and 29. I watched an animated simulation of the lightning storms as they crossed from north-west to south-east. It was as though a vast and merciless dragon was swooping and swerving across our island, breathing deadly fire, now to the left, now to the right. The fires continued burning for weeks, and by early February 2019, they had burnt around 200,000 ha, almost 3% of Tasmania.

 

Back in The Patch - our local bushland - we watched anxiously as one particular fire, the Gell River fire in the south-west wilderness, grew into a monster. As it roared down the Vale of Rasselas, a vast smoke plume spread eastward, piling high into the sky behind Kunanyi/Mt Wellington. An eerily murky pall settled over the city of Hobart for days. Nobody could breathe easy in any sense. It was a potent reminder that, for better or worse, the patch of bush we live beside is connected to the wild.

[A "cool' burn in our local bushland]

All day long we had the radio on, listening for updates, wondering if the fires would reach Hobart. We hastily worked out our fire plan, with southern Tasmania’s disastrous 1967 fires firmly in mind. That calamity claimed 64 lives, including some in our neighbourhood. If fire struck here again our plan was simple: get out early. Twice that summer we packed overnight bags and precious items. We photographed parts of the house interior, in case we’d need to remember what was replaceable. The irreplaceable would be just that.
 
We’re not the only ones threatened by fire. Looking at The Patch, I wonder how its other inhabitants can respond to a severe fire. How might they “get out early”? And even if a bushfire doesn’t come, how will the trend to hotter and drier effect the plants and animals here? 

[Where would an echidna find refuge in a wildfire?]

Of course all of this change to our climate doesn’t mean we’ll suddenly have uniformly hot, dry summers. We will continue to enjoy the endearingly changeable summer weather we’ve come to expect, including the occasional December snow on Kunanyi. But weather is not climate. Climate refers to changes over longer periods of time, and looks at trends in our weather. And it’s the trend to hotter, drier, and more volatile that is most worrisome. I ask myself whether this is a situation I want to leave to my grandchildren’s generation?
 
In that context my own maternal grandmother comes to mind. She was a wonderful, somewhat eccentric presence throughout my childhood. One of her quirks was a morbid fear of thunderstorms. When lightning flashed and thunder rumbled, she would quickly take herself off to her room. And there she would hide in a dark wardrobe, sitting on a chair she had in there for just that purpose, hoping the sturm und drang would be muffled by her frocks and coats. 
 
I could never understand her phobia, as I found a “good thunderstorm” quite exhilarating. But all these years later, and for entirely different reasons, I seem to be inheriting my grandmother’s feelings about thunder and lightning. I won’t be heading for the wardrobe, but I certainly wish I could parcel up a coming storm, and label it “Return to Sender”. 

A Loopy Walk on the Plateau 5

Day 5: Aches and Lakes 

After a delightfully restful night, we were up early and full of beans for the easy day ahead of us. We’d planned a post-walk lunch at Mole Creek Pub, and we were all keen to get there. It was a simple walk past Lakes Nameless, Snake and Explorer, much of it on an actual named track, then on to the shore of Lake Mackenzie. After that it would be an easy walk around the lake shore back to the cars. A few of us had done most of the walk before, and had no memory of difficulties. Ah, but amnesia among bushwalkers … it’s as rife as it is perilous! 

[Farewell to Ironstone Hut ... click to enlarge]

Our first hint of difficulty came when Tim D disappeared into a scrubby hole while crossing a creek near the start of Snake Lake. He thrashed around for what seemed like minutes, only the writhing branches giving away his position. In the end he broke a walking pole while trying to extract himself. So much for being on a named track! Apparently we weren’t yet at the Explorer Creek Track, which maps – for good reason – show as intermittent. 

[Scoparia in bloom beside Explorer Lake]

It certainly wasn’t here on the eastern shore of Lake Explorer, which we were finding tediously scrubby and undulating. The scoparia might have been flowering handsomely, but progress through or around it was scratchy and difficult. When we did get a view we looked longingly at the western shore and wondered: might that have been an easier option? 

[A bit of respite: looking across Explorer Lake]

We finally scrambled around the end of Explorer, and were relieved to join a more defined track. It led us down Explorer Creek, past a waterfall, to the confluence of the creek with the Fisher River on the shores of Lake Mackenzie. 

[Larry returning from the Explorer Ck waterfall]

We crossed the rushing stream on somewhat precarious rocks, and arrived mostly dry-footed on the other side. It had taken us three and a half hours from hut to lake, more time than we’d expected to take for the whole walk back to the cars. Still, we were almost there now. We just had to walk the 2km or so around the shore. 

[Having a break after the Fisher River crossing]

The maps helpfully showed a track around the shore, except there wasn’t one. Or if there was it was underwater. Instead we began a steep, scrubby, slanted, rocky scramble around the lake. At times the way relented, and we merely had to rock-hop. But then we’d find another steep bluff that wouldn’t allow us to continue close to the shore. At these points we had to clamber steeply into rough bush, and battle our way parallel to the shore until we could drop down again. 

[Tim D on one of the "friendly" bits of the shoreline]

This exhausting cat and mouse game continued until, at last, we found what looked like a rough grader track. Surely now we’d simply follow this until it came out at the dam wall of Lake Mackenzie. No! Inexplicably the grader track suddenly stopped, and there was no obvious track ahead. Talk about a road to nowhere! I wasn’t alone in loudly expressing my dismay. If ever we needed the assistance of an eagle, it was now. Surely a wedgie would be able to see the way ahead. But lacking such avian assistance, we had no other choice than to bush-bash in the general direction of our cars. 

Eventually, scratched, sweaty and far from jolly, we struggled down to the lake again, and across it we saw the dam wall. It had taken us well over an hour and a half to travel less than 2km. And we weren’t even back yet! Worse still our lunch appointment at the pub was looking in peril. We’d previously learned the hard way that they closed the kitchen at 2pm, and it was about 1:15pm when we reached the cars. We hastily sent Tim D and Libby ahead as an advance party, in the hope that they’d be able to keep the kitchen open on the promise that 5 hungry bushwalkers were on their way. 

Larry, TimO and I left a little later. When we finally drove into mobile range it was nearly 2 o’clock, and we were still 10 minutes from Mole Creek. At this point the phone rang, and it was Tim D calling us from the pub. We’d have to give him our lunch orders NOW, as the chef was about to shut up shop. Hamburgers all round (vego for TimO) was the quick and easy answer. 

The timing was perfect. We arrived at the pub a little after 2pm, in time to grab a hard-earned drink. And as we joined the others under the shade of a big old magnolia tree in the garden, the meals started coming out. “Windy, rude and boisterous” our November wander may have been, with a real test on our “easy” final day. 

[Relaxing after lunch: selfie courtesy of Tim Dyer]

But as we sat, ate and drank together, our well-timed finish had us forgetting our pain and declaring it to have been a great walk. It might have been a case of early-onset amnesia, but who said hard days can’t sometimes have a happy ending?