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.

A Loopy Walk on the Plateau 3

Day 3: A Trip to Cairns

“All journeys have secret destinations of which the traveller is unaware.” – Martin Buber

 

What a difference blue sky and time on a summit can make! We descended from Turrana Bluff gradually, happily; delighting in the lack of full packs and the wide vistas all around us. We were back at our campsite around 11am, and quickly finished packing before setting off for destination not-quite-known. In theory we should find Ritter’s Track by mid-afternoon. A few years before, a little east of Pencil Pine Tarn, we had located some of the cairns that marked Ritter’s Track. That time we’d followed them south and west towards the Walls of Jerusalem. This time our plan was to go the other way. We would pass east of Lakes Lexie and Gwendy in search of some of the northern markers of Ritter’s Track. We were now thinking of the walk as Ritter 2.0.

 

[Tim D finds water and shelter]

The day had become warm, the sun strong. Full-pack, off-track walking, with its attendant high leg-lifting, is thirsty work. By lunchtime we were in need of both water and shade, and found them in the delightful shade of some pencil pines beside a small pool. If we’d been told two days ago that we’d be sweating, putting on sunscreen, and hiding in the shade from fierce sun, we’d have shaken our heads in disbelief. Welcome to November in the high country: freezing one day, burning the next!
 
Over lunch our GPS geeks, Tim D and Larry, began comparing data on the whereabouts of the nearest Ritter cairn. We were supposed to be walking directly towards one, but we knew we weren’t guaranteed to find it. Ritter’s Track is not like a conventional bushwalking track: mostly easy to follow, with markers and an obvious ground trail. Rather, at least from our previous experience, it’s a vague route, marked by sometimes hard-to-find rock cairns, and with little or no ground trail. After all, it was created over 100 years ago to drive cattle towards grazing grounds in the Walls of Jerusalem area, and it‘s been many decades since it’s been used for that.

[Looking down towards Lake Lexie]

We crested a scrubby high point overlooking Lake Lexie, a lake we’d wandered past on previous trips. We did so again, making for some low rocky hills, beyond which lay Lake Gwendy. After that, Larry told us, we should be getting close to a Ritter cairn. By now some of us were growing weary, and even low hills felt like hard work. The prospect of finding a cairn was less thrilling than that of finding a good campsite. We plodded on, eventually dropping down through scrub towards a small open lake. A few of us were ready to stop, but this looked like a campsite only for the desperate. After a brief discussion we walked on.

[TimO at Lake Lexie, with the "low hill" behind]

We clambered over another rise and found a larger, unnamed lake. Larry said we were only a few hundred metres from a cairn, but in this sort of country that can be half an hour’s work. We compromised by continuing up the eastern shore of the large lake vaguely close to the direction of a cairn. By now most of us were only interested in finding a campsite, at least for today. 

[Our eventual campsite: a hidden gem]

We'd been spread out searching for a while before Libby walked upslope from the large lake, and called back that she’d located a promising possibility. It proved to be more than that! She’d found a lovely small lake, fringed by pencil pines, and with a group of ducks bobbing near the far shore. What bliss! We each managed to find a spot for our tent, and settled in “tired but happy”, as the cliched school composition had it.

[Libby celebrates a card game win]

Indeed we were happy enough, and the weather was fine enough, that we sat around playing cards after dinner. As we finished our games, a waxing moon rose into the clear evening sky, a change of the guard signalling bedtime. With this wonderful campsite it seems we’d landed on our feet. That said we'd be even happier once we were off them and in our tents.

A Loopy Walk on the Plateau 2

Day 2: Back to Dyer's Downfall

Past tears are present strength

– George MacDonald

 

We left our campsite a little after 10am and continued down Harry Lees Lake – actually a long, two-part lake – for a bit over a kilometre. There was no track, but the going was delightfully open along the lakeside, if a little scrubby once we climbed out of the valley. Again we didn’t know exactly where we were going. But Tim D and Libby, along with Merran (who missed this walk due to work obligations) had come this way before. They were sure we’d find plenty of lakeside camps in the country between Turrana Bluff and Turrana Heights. 

[Clambering around the end of Harry Lees Lake]

First we had to sidle around some lumpy, rocky country, passing some good stands of young pencil pines. Just before we dropped down into a shallow valley, we were visited by a wedge-tailed eagle. It circled us inquisitively for a while before apparently concluding we were neither threat nor food. The wind continued to be strong, and showers were still blowing through occasionally. 

 

Once we were in the valley, we stopped for lunch near a rock shelter. There Tim D told us the story of what happened last time he, Merran and Libby had come this way. They’d been walking towards the head of the Little Fisher valley, and had come down a steep, rocky slope just above where we were now sitting. A slight miss-step by Tim had led to a tumble downslope. Unfortunately one leg had been caught behind the other, and as he fell Tim’s full weight came down on the front leg, which crashed onto a rock. He coolly described the crack he heard as his fibula snapped.

[Pencil pine groves punctuated the walk]

After binding the leg and trying to hobble on, they all realised there was no choice but to use Tim's InReach device to call for helicopter rescue. In telling the story, Tim somewhat downplayed the pain he must have gone through, but the rest of us were squirming during the retelling. And now, some 7 months later, here he was back at the scene of the fall, seemingly quite okay to be returning to what we duly dubbed Dyer’s Downfall. His fractured fibula has healed well, but some damage to his ankle has remained troublesome. Not that we who persistently lagged behind him would have noticed!

[Tim D climbing the tufty slope]

After lunch we climbed steeply and slowly out of the valley, and up towards a shoulder of Turrana Bluff. The last part of the climb was through waterlogged tufty grass, with ample evidence of the wombats and wallabies that helped to keep the grass cropped. It was beautiful walking, though the slope was unrelenting. When we finally crested the rise, there were mutterings about going on to the summit of Turrana Bluff, which was only a kilometre or so away. I gruffly demurred, mainly because I’d found the ascent thus far hard enough without adding a further 200m climb to it. I also pointed out that I’d been there before – albeit decades ago – so I felt no “peak bagger” pull. That might not have been fair to Tim D, who had more reason than most of us to reach that particular summit. But for the time being we decided to leave the climb till later, and instead used our dwindling energy looking for a camp-able lake among the dozens we could now see below us.

[Our camp beside a tarn near Turrana Bluff]

We dropped down through light scrub and the occasional scoparia thicket, and scouted around a few pools, tarns and small lakes sniffing out a suitable spot. We eventually settled on a small tarn around which we could just fit five tents. The forecast had promised the winds would abate, so we weren’t too fussed about any perceived lack of shelter. 

 

That faith in the forecast came back to haunt us. Our tents were shaken all night, the strong winds and rain having come back with a vengeance. It seems no-one slept well, and there could have been much grumbling over breakfast, had the promised fine weather not finally made an appearance. Instead, by 9 am it was a revitalised team that packed day packs, and strode up the hill towards Turrana Bluff. Tim D in particular had a date with the bluff he'd so dramatically missed out on last time. With blue skies and a gently wafting breeze, we could not have chosen a better day for a side trip to the top of this impressive 1454m mountain.

[Summit selfie, Turrana Bluff]

[Tim D and Libby on Turrana Bluff ... at last] 

Beneath us we looked down on the Little Fisher Valley, and beyond that to the Walls of Jerusalem. All around us were familiar mountains, some spattered with snow, as well as some of the many thousands of lakes and tarns that dot the wondrous Central Plateau. But nowhere to be seen was my grumpy, non-peak-bagging self. I was so glad to be up here. And you can bet Tim D was too.

A Loopy Walk on the Plateau 1

Day 1: Wild About Harry

 

Sybil of months, and worshipper of winds,
I love thee, rude and boisterous as thou art

- from “November” by John Clare

 

It’s a risky business trusting November. John Clare, the 19^th century Romantic poet, may have been writing about England and depicting the northern hemisphere’s final month of autumn, but he still nailed my experience of Tasmania’s last month of spring. So yes, we were expecting “windy, rude and boisterous” for our November walk on Tasmania’s Central Plateau. We would not be disappointed.
 
Complications with our various schedules meant we spent the Thursday night at Tim and Merran’s cottage in Sheffield. That allowed us a relaxing night; dinner together; and the prospect of an early start on the Friday. But come Friday morning, the worst of a cold and wet south-west change was still coming through. The forecast was for 70km/h winds and snow squalls in the mountains. Given that, who would blame us for delaying the start in the hope of the front blowing through? 

[Ready to leave Lake Mackenzie]

And so, after a cozy, civilised morning coffee in Sheffield, it was noon before the five of us hoisted our packs and started walking away from Lake Mackenzie. For the first two hours we followed our usual route towards the Blue Peaks. The wind was strong, and showers whooshed through at intervals, occasionally turning to sleet and snow. 
 
Our first night’s destination was new to three of us, so Tim D and Libby, who’d been there earlier in the year, took the lead in guiding us towards Harry Lees Lake. Tim had earlier estimated it was only about three hours from Lake Mackenzie. We took that with a grain of salt, given not only Tim’s optimistic nature, but also the strongly adverse weather conditions.

[And then came the snow]

 
As we crested the high point of the day’s walk, the wind grew in ferocity, almost knocking us off our feet. And then the sleet and snow were replaced by hail. Icy pellets thwacked into us, stinging any part that was exposed. We cinched our hoods down, and kept our gaze at our feet until the squall finally passed. This was unpleasant walking, yet somehow it was more than a little exhilarating. We were uncomfortable certainly, but with good gear and care with navigation, we were not in any danger.

[Libby still smiling in the snow]

 
At one point we stopped for a quick rest, and TimO tested Tim D’s knowledge of the number of high points before we could finally descend to Harry Lees Lake. Such points, according to our group’s lore, are called “faux plateaux”: a lower equivalent of false summits. And TimO reminded us that there are always four. Tim D was a little evasive in his answer, a sure sign that we still had quite a few crests ahead of us. 
 
At this stage, for some reason, I started singing “I’m Just Wild About Harry” to myself. I quickly ran out of words, since it’s a 1920s song, and as ancient as I was now feeling, I wasn’t around when the song was popular. Perhaps it was my way of wooing the lake; willing it to appear just over the next hill, or around the next bend. I can’t say it worked, but perhaps it distracted me a little from the buffeting wind and stinging rain.
 
Finally, after some four hours of walking, we turned a corner, walked down a gentle slope, and there sat Harry Lees Lake. Better still, on its western shore we saw a substantial pencil pine forest. With that came the prospect of finding some shelter from the ferocious wind. As we scouted around for suitable tent sites, and eventually found them, I started to feel a little more positive. Perhaps I could just get a little wild about Harry, especially when occasional rays of sun lit up the late afternoon. 
 
Still, our evening meal was a hurried affair. A freezing wind whooshed loudly through the pine foliage. We sat huddled in our puffer jackets, trying in vain to get warm as we cooked between showers. Libby in particular sat there shivering, a Gore-tex coated icy pole. It wasn’t long before we all scurried off to bed. 

[Snow: our morning surprise]

 
The wind and showers kept up all night. I got up at first light, and was surprised to find that the overnight showers had actually been snow. Our tents were spattered with snow, and the ground all around was white. The overnight weather had certainly been wild around and about Harry!

[Larry stays in his tent to cook a warming brew]

 
We started the day slowly. I’d already expressed a wish to stay another night “with Harry”, and the wish grew stronger in this weather, which continued windy, cold and showery. But some in the party had other plans, and once I’d finished a lazy breakfast and a follow-up coffee, I could see the writing on the wall. The agenda for our walk had been evolving over the weeks leading up to it. At first we were going to do a through walk to the Little Fisher valley, but this had been scuttled because of car-shuffle complications. 

[A bleak morning at Harry Lees Lake]

 
Gradually the plan had morphed into a possible circuit, taking in those parts of Ritter’s Track that we’d not visited before. If a loop walk out to Ritter’s Track and back to Lake Mackenzie was now the plan, we would need to move on each day. As wild as I was about Harry, I agreed we should pack up and move on.  

Talleh Tales: Chapter Three

So I am on the plateau again, having gone round it like a dog in circles to see if it is a good place. I think it is, and I am to stay up here for a while. - Nan Shepherd

 

Channelling the wonderful Scottish geo-poet, Nan Shepherd, we widened our walking circle the next day. Our home lake was clearly a good place, of that we were certain. But what of the other two lagoons that make up the Talleh Lagoons?

 

We hefted our day packs, lunch and wet weather gear inside, and left camp after a leisurely breakfast. This time we went north, then briefly east to cross the top of our lagoon. Next we turned north and walked up the eastern side of the middle lagoon. The sky was a mix of blue and non-threatening cloud, and a brisk breeze blew from the south. We’d chosen this side of the middle lagoon, the smallest of the three, as the vegetation was low and relatively sparse. Across the lake the going looked steeper and more scrubby. 

[An old fence post at the middle lagoon]

 

On the lakeshore ahead we saw what we thought to be the stump of a dead tree. Instead, to our surprise, it turned out to be a fence post, some rusty old fencing wire still attached. This part of the plateau was used for summer grazing, mainly of sheep but also cattle, from the early 1800s until the mid 20^th century. We presumed that these old lichen-covered fences near Talleh Lagoons were once used for stock management, ‘though they may also have been boundary markers. By coincidence we saw on our map that the western shore of Talleh Lagoons marked the eastern boundary of the Walls of Jerusalem National Park.

[The old fence line extending north from Talleh Lagoons]

 

When we reached the top of the northern lagoon, the sporadic fence posts turned into a line of posts stretching a long way north. I followed it a little way up Quaile Gully, more a shallow creek than a gully at this point. Jim and Lisa waited as I wandered, wondered and took photographs. Some of my wondering was about how Tasmania’s palawa Aboriginal people would have seen and used this place. I knew that they seasonally harvested swans' eggs up here, and from what we’d seen there would have been plenty of those. As well they patch-burned up here, to encourage “green pick” that would have made it easier to hunt marsupials.

[Fenceline in the Quaile Gully]

 

I returned to the others, and together we reckoned we’d gone as far as we wanted. But so we could explore some new country, we made our way to the western shore of the northern lagoon. Thankfully this wasn’t too scrubby, but rather a delightfully undulating checkerboard of green cushion plants, red mountain rocket and lichen-dotted dolerite boulders.

[Lisa and Jim near the northern lagoon]

 

On our journey south we’d planned to avoid the scrubby western side of the middle lagoon. But we were still kept honest by the scrub that stood between the end of the northern lagoon and the top of the middle lagoon. Warmed and a little scratched, we reached the route we’d taken on our outward journey and paused for lunch. Then, bringing the day’s circling journey to an end, we returned to our home lake. 

 

Later that afternoon we caught up with our neighbour Steve, who had successfully hooked his dinner: a good sized brown trout. We were a little envious, especially Jim, who was on a minimalist trip in terms of food. He’d even decided to go without a stove, so would “borrow” hot water from Lisa or me. And at dinner time he didn’t decline offers of any spare hot food from our dinners. We laughingly we told him it was as good as having a dog to clean up after us.

[Any spare water, Lisa?]

 

In the late afternoon I noticed some movement at the far end of the lake. I saw what I thought was people scrambling down the scrubby shore and getting in for a swim, near where the inlet stream joined the lake. It was too far away to make out details, but I watched for some minutes as these people splashed and swam and had a good old time in the water. I guessed they’d get out of the water soon enough, and we’d see them coming this way to camp.

 

I decided to get a little closer, and walked up to where Steve was camped. But by then the swimmers had gone. I asked Steve if he’d noticed them, and he shook his head, saying he’d only seen swans. Jim joined us, and he too reckoned it was probably swans. I looked up towards the tracks leading in and out of our lagoon, but saw no sign of walkers. I was mightily puzzled, as I was sure I’d seen people, and that the swans were further out in the water. 

 

I pondered this later, and wondered whether my reverie of palawa people around these lagoons had over-fired my imagination. Perhaps it had just been swans, but … my cogitations continued. There are those who are somewhat in awe of the pioneer European trappers, shepherds and cattlemen who braved the often bleak conditions up here for nearly two centuries. And certainly they have my admiration. But the Big River band, and others of the palawa people, were up here for 60 000 years plus, including through a couple of ice ages. Admiration doesn’t even begin to describe what I feel about that. Perhaps I might be excused for engaging my imagination a little more than usual.

[View towards the Walls of Jerusalem on our way out]

 

The next day we packed up and left, and headed for a place that Jim knew would feed him well without the need for a stove or for any “borrowing”. As we sat and reviewed our great experience of “slow-packing”, the Great Lake Hotel fed us very well. 

Talleh Tales: Chapter Two

[Water lillies in Talleh Lagoon]

Warming to this new style of bushwalking, with its less-is-more vibe, I retired to my tent after the "ripples at dawn" event (see here). With our plans for the day decidedly low-key, and neither Jim nor Lisa up and about, a lie-in seemed appropriate. 

 

Some ambient bird song helped me doze until the strong sun warmed my little red tent a bit too much. Time for breakfast. We’d made a kitchen space between some boulders, and we relaxed in its comfortable warmth, sipping and chatting about our options for the day. We decided that a circumnavigation of our lagoon would be a good way to get to know the immediate neighbourhood. 

[Exploring the neighbourhood]

So from our little bay we walked south through light scrub to the next bay. Water lillies dotted the shallows and carpets of red seedheads of mountain rocket brightened the whole scene. Nearby we found an elevated open place beside a large eucalypt, with room for many tents. Feeling the generosity of this whole lagoon, we agreed this spot would have made a good alternative campsite to our own. 

 

[The next bay south]

We wandered on, enjoying being off-track with only a vague agenda. At the southern end of the lagoon we needed to cross the outlet stream. Here the scrub thickened markedly, and boulders joined the party, necessitating a little scrambling, some bush-bashing, and a small leap across the stream. Once on the other side we could turn north and walk up the eastern shore of the lagoon. 

[Lisa and Jim cross the creek]

Of course it wasn’t that simple, but after some creative meandering, we found ourselves more or less opposite our campsite. From our “home” campsite we’d looked across to a grove of pencil pines near a beach, and had wondered whether it might hide a pleasant, pencil-pine-shaded, lakeshore campsite? Now that we’d reached it, we saw that the answer was NO. The only campable spot was the beach itself. This was well away from the pines, and was both sloping and very open. Still, it was a very pleasant spot for a break on this calm, warm day. 

[An alternative campsite?]

We reclined on the beach, watching swans on the lake, which were no doubt watching us back. We’d taken lunch with us, but as it wasn’t even midday yet, we made do with a snack and a drink. We’d save lunch for when we’d got “home” and could add a hot drink to it. 

 

The afternoon continued warm and sunny, and two of us talked ourselves into a post-lunch swim. The lake was quite shallow, and not too cold, but there was no persuading Jim to come in. If the urge to swim ever comes over him, his response is to have a good lie down, or else to book a flight to Queensland. After the swim we all toyed with the idea of heading to our tents for a nap. But by now the sun had grown fierce, and the tents were unbearably hot. So I decided to continue my day the way it had begun, with a quiet sit by the lake shore. 

 

I shuffled my Helinox chair into a small patch of shade and sat still for a very long time, just looking out over the calm waters. Swans drifted in and out of view, rising trout occasionally rippled the water, and tiny wavelets made the softest of splashes beneath me. I’m not always good at stopping and being meditative, but this was an opportunity too good to miss. And wasn’t one of our reasons for going “slow-packing” the chance to feed our souls?

 

As I pondered my morning experience, and the sense of God hovering quietly over the waters of creation, I thought back to the old testament prophet, Elijah. This gifted man had suddenly met life-threatening opposition, which had plunged him into a period of dreadful anxiety and depression. He’d hidden on a mountainside hoping to be rescued by some words of reassurance from God. Instead Elijah experienced a series of intense natural events. First a mighty whirlwind, then an earthquake, and then a fierce fire passed by. But, we’re told in I Kings 19, the Lord was not in any of those. It was only after all of those natural dramas had subsided that Elijah heard a “still, small voice” (as I learned it in Sunday school). Other translators have it as “a soft whisper”, or “the voice of fragile silence”. However we translate it, it was in this surprising, quiet, and extraordinarily personal manner that God chose to speak to Elijah.

 

Someone closer to our own time and place, the bush bishop E.H. Burgmann, may have had a related experience. In the 1940s, writing about his time in the Australian bush, Burgmann says:

 

The bush . . .  will not speak to a man in a hurry. Its message is worth waiting for. Only the soul that is stilled in its presence can hear the music of its song.

[Looking across Talleh Lagoon]

Here, now, by this softly whispering lake, I felt I had come to such a still point. It was no mountaintop experience; there had been no spectacle or miracle. But I had experienced both a quiet awe and a deep joy. And as American author, poet and biologist Drew Lanham recently put it: 

 

Awe is a kind of prayer. Joy is my praise.