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?

A Loopy Walk on the Plateau 4

Day 4: Cairns, An Eagle and a Hut

There’s something they don’t tell you about a peaceful, still night in a tent. Condensation! All of us, bar TimO, woke to drips of condensation in our tents. (Tim had wisely slept a little away from the lake, under the shelter of some pencil pine trees.) Apparently the lack of a breeze, a cold night, humid air pooling near standing water, and our own breath, had all combined to create lots of vapour that condensed on our tent flies.

Ah well, the sun was shining, and almost all was right with the world. Our tents would dry soon enough. So we ate breakfast, and packed up for a day of cairn finding. Larry was ready well before the rest of us, earning a mock rebuke or two. The fact is he had the scent of cairns in his nostrils, or more accurately he had GPS data that showed we’d camped only a few hundred metres from a Ritter cairn. And sure enough, only 20 minutes after breaking camp, we saw a pyramid-shaped object on a rise just ahead of us. That felt too easy, so at first I thought it just a bush. But as we drew closer, we saw it was indeed a lichen-encrusted pyramidal pile of rocks: surely a Ritter cairn!

[Our first Ritter Cairn of the trip]

After easily finding more cairns of similar ilk, we knew we were on the right track. Indeed Ritter’s Track was now looking somewhat trackish. We could still lose our way at times, and we did, but increasingly we found ground trail to show us the way. I was beginning to change my opinion of Ritter’s Track. 

[We started to find ground trail between cairns]

In this section at least, it was obviously followed by walkers and fishers. In fact some of these late-coming users of the historic route showed their zeal – or perhaps anxiety – by placing small intermediate cairns to make the route more obvious. We could tell they were much more recent because of their smaller stature and the lack of lichen growth on them. And here I had an idle thought: could scientists do a study on how long it takes for lichen to grow on rocks using Ritter cairns as a baseline?

[Some cairns were hard to miss]

We wandered on through undulating country, always within view of lakes. But most of our route kept to higher ground. This was originally so that cattle and horse riders could avoid the boggiest ground. For us it made for a mazy, meandering path, but it had the advantage of keeping our boots dry.

[Another cairn ... we're on track]

Again our destination wasn’t certain. We’d looked on the map, and considered some of the lakes on the southern side of Forty Lakes Peak, such as Lake Evans or Lake Halkyard, as possibilities. But they were well to the side of Ritter’s Track. Our deliberations were interrupted by another wedge-tailed visitation. The eagle flew around us a number of times, at one stage “escorted” fairly vigorously by a currawong. After a while it landed on a rock a little above us, and sat there checking us out. We returned the compliment, waiting with phones and cameras ready for when it took off again. It obliged, and eventually flew off to a crag that had a large bush on it. A nest, perhaps? 

[A wedge-tailed eagle circles above]

The eagle experience brought us sharply to the present, and reminded us of just where we were. I’d been dragging my feet a little, finding that the usual day 4 energy – by which time you’ve usually got your walking legs – was yet to come. But stopping and watching the eagle, and seeing not only this magnificent wild creature, but also the wild crags and lakes all around me, lifted my spirits. I felt deeply privileged to be out here with good friends on such a day.  

[Tim D contemplates the route ahead]

And now we found we were quite close to Lake Evans. It made a good lunch spot, though it was far too early to descend and check out camping possibilities. So after lunch we determined we’d march on in the direction of Forty Lakes Peak. Tim D kept calling it Forty Thousand Lakes Peak, which is closer to the actual number of lakes nearby. My memory of the peak was from a decade or more back, when some friends and I had climbed it from the Lake Nameless side. I recalled it being some 30-40 minutes from lake to peak. Slightly buoyed by that, we decided we’d make for Nameless, which had the bonus of the nearby Ironstone Hut.

[Ironstone Hut sitting above Lake Nameless]

It was still early in the afternoon, and the blue sky smiled on us. We pushed on around the sometimes rocky flanks of Forty Lakes Peak, and started our descent. It proved far longer and harder than my memory had it. Also Ritter’s cairns were now rare or non-existent. Instead we made a bee-line for Lake Nameless, striking scrub, boulder fields and general rough going. We finally staggered to the hut only a little short of two hours after leaving the tops.

[Relaxing at Ironstone Hut]

We‘d earlier considered other overnight options, as not everyone in the party was a fan of huts. But once at Ironstone we found there were no other hut occupants, and enough okay tent sites for the hut-averse. It was settled, we’d stay at Ironstone Hut. Tim D teased me about this always being my plan, saying I was the group’s surrogate Jim. Jim is a usual fixture in our walking group, a died-in-the-wool hutophile. He’d missed this walk for health reasons, but we all agreed this was one part of our walk that he would genuinely have enjoyed. Given it’s a character hut, with bunks, mattresses, a wood-burner, and table and benches, what wasn’t to like? (Later we even lit a fire so we could show Jim what he missed.)

[This one's for Jim!]

We cooked and ate outside in the beautiful clear evening air. TimO had a spare berry crumble dessert, and Tim D a chocolate mousse, which we combined to surprisingly good effect. After that culinary treat, Larry was content to head tentward for an early night, while the rest of us repaired to the hut for some rowdy rounds of cards. TimO and I combined magnificently to thrash Tim D and Libby at a round of 500. I then resumed my non-playing coaching role, and helped TimO to another gallant defeat in a game of Yaniv. Each card in the bespoke pack had a Tasmanian mountain name on it, and TimO may have quietly complained that my calling out the name and details of every mountain I had climbed was a tad distracting. Sometimes the best efforts of a coach aren’t fully appreciated.