THE WESTERN ARTHUR TRAVERSE – South-West Tasmania
Friday 20th November
A fine day beckoned at the cosy Mt.Field YHA, the starting point for this ominous trek. Kate and Barbara, two cycling vets from England, kindly offered to take me up to the trek start point at Scott’s Peak Dam in exchanging for them looking after the car while is away. The beckoning peaks of the area, but in particular the Arthurs looked foreboding, even this clear day. The Arthur Range is the principal mountain range in South-West Tasmania, part of its World Heritage Area, a vast wilderness devoid of any human population. The area is only accessible by boat and a few muddy tracks. Like Fiordland in New Zealand’s south-west, this is tough country, clothed in temeprate rainforests, wild rivers and despite their modest altitudes some of the most rugged and inaccessible mountains that can be found anywhere. Hardy sub-alpine plants such as “horizontal scrub” makes access and going very difficult. The Arthurs have a reputation of being treated to some of the worst weather in Australia, due to the prevailing south-westerly winds. Snow and violent storms striking even in summer months. The jagged quartzite skyline promised exciting “walking”. Flinders on his circumnavigation of Australia noted; “The mountains are the most dismal that can be imagined. The eyes range over these peaks with astonishment and horror”. I farewelled the duo ominously at 10.30. walking through a lovely grove of rainforest to the registration shelter. To my surprise and shock I had been the first person to walk the range for ten days. I would be totally alone for four days. A scary thought, as I stampeded along a superb boardwalk across the button grass flats towards the jagged peaks. The Tasmanian Parks and Wildlife Service had done a terrific job to provide these track improvements. The track became increasingly muddy and bog ridden as it got closer to the Arthur Plains which lay at the foot of the main range. I visualised the scene 11,000 years ago when the last ice-age was at its climax. The scene would have been that of a crevassed ice-sheet punctuated by the same quartzite needles that probably haven’t changed much since those chilly times. The morraines left by the receding glaciers now provide easy access to the main range. Thoughts went to the Aborigines who must have suffered in the diabolically cold conditions (to them). What tough and resilient people thay must have been, sadly a cultural heritage destroyed by thirty years of racial cleansing. I crossed a glade protecting the tea-coloured Junction creek via a crude cable crossing, resembling something that might have been used in an army obstacle course. The ascent up Morraine “A” was initially a struggle. The unexpected heat of the sun making the undergrowth quite steamy. The $25 pocket altimeter, a souvenir from the Surveyor’s Congress in Launceston was working surprisingly well, a very useful mountaineering tool in misty or white-out conditions. The weather today however, was fantastic and after passing a few boulders and caves I was upon the main range. The view and conditions were simply breathtaking, enough to make one almost cry. A clear view around the whole south-west of the island. Port Davey and Bathurst Harbour and the Southern Ocean to the west and south all clearly defined, yet so distant. To the north, Lake Pedder and numerous quartzite peaks and ranges similar in appearance to the Arthurs. I was in awe for a long while on the top of Mt. Hesperus. I simply couldn’t believe the warm, sunny and windless conditions. I scarpered along the ‘fan out’ section of the ridgeline moor across the glacial cirques of Lake Fortuna down to Lake Cygnus. This part of the track was quite benign according to Annette at the PWS in Hobart. I descended down to the stillness of Lake Cygnus in the quiet of the late afternoon, marvelling at the location of the campsite, surrounded by sheer crags. I found a wooden camping platform, sensibly designed to prevent erosion and set up my new ‘mummy’ tent, tying it down with rope anchored to the slats of the platform. I cooked dinner in a state of awe. Later, I lay down watching the sun slowly set, casting eerie shadows over the crags. The stillness of the early evening was accentuated by the harsh calls of the currawongs and the goose like bleating of numerous frogs all echoing around this natural amphitheatre . The wispiness of light clouds caused me a little concern, subliminally hinting of harsh weather to follow. I slept uneasily, rats rustling in my pack waking me to move the food inside the tent. For some bizarre reason they stole away with an Earl Grey tea bag !
Saturday 21st November
I was awoken from my uneasy sleep by the pitter-patter of rain on the tent. I looked out at the dreaded spectre of mist and rain shrouding the lake. I cooked a lovely pasta for breakfast with some pita bread and cheese, fearing that with this inclement weather I might not stop for lunch. The rain wasn’t heavy initially and the mists accentuated the contorted nature of the peaks. I sidled around Mt. Hayes and Procyon Peak in breathtaken awe. Distant crags, smothered in wisps of mist, Lakes Ceres and Oberon appearing in the depths below like dark Hadean Pools. On closer inspections the base rock had a beaten twisted look – reminding one of its creation is some ghastly geological era. The scramble down to Lake Oberon was quite steep and airy, passing many groves of distinctive pandanii and a small tarn. After Lake Oberon the track, visibility and weather deteriorated, making the going exceedingly difficult, a complete contrast to the previous day. Despite the wind not blowing very strongly, the rain had the effect of moistening everything. The scramble over Mt. Pegasus was hideous and technically difficult. The slippery trunks and roots of the hardy horizontal scrub either hindering progress, or providing invaluable footholds and handles. Increasingly an immense feeling of isolation started to sweep over me, like I had never felt before. Occasionally the mist would clear, revealing a sheer drop, another crag or mountain, or a view down to one of the glacial lakes. My supply of fruity jubes seemed thankfully inexhaustible and every now and then I would cup my hands under a trickle of water to quell any thirst. Before long, High Moor appeared, the mist just clearing to reveal the bleakness of its aspect, shape like a cup with a montrous rock jutting out from the middle of it. The two semi-official tent sites were on cold sodden clay, everywhere else either being fully saturated or a rivulet of water. I set up the tent, in a far less favourable mood than the night before, replenishing my water supply at a nearby stream. A good time was spent inside the tent brewing up a long hot Thai soup, coffee and rice. It rained incessantly and heavily outside, as the temperature dropped and darkness befell. I drifted in and out of sleep awkwardly through the night, wetness threatening to creep in at any time. This had to be the most desolate campsite in Tasmania !
Sunday 22nd November
I finally got some prolonged sleep around dawn, the continuous patter of rain providing enough constancy to allow that luxury. I awoke, breakfasted and packed as best I could in the exposed and inclement conditions. Today the mist was thicker, with visibility at 30 metres, the rain heavier and now driven by a strengthening SE breeze. Putting on cold, wet clothes and boots was not the most pleasant experience. Fortunately, I remembered where the exit track was from the clearer conditions of the previous day. I headed off along the Beggary Bumps. It occurred to me after a while, though seemingly innocuous on the map, the bumps were in fact a series of exceedingly difficult and airy scrambles, very up and downish. The thick mists hiding their true nature until you were actually upon them. Barely was the trail horizontal at any time. The passage of the trail was akin to hopping across spaceships of rock and scrub. The driving rain absolutely saturated me, and my pack was probably gaining weight as well. The sheer density of the clouds obscuring otherwise splendid views. This was just a little frustrating. This was an awesome walk, in no way underestimated in the literature I had read. I had expected it to be a difficult walk, rewarded with unforgettable vistas like that of the first day, but today was more a test of character and persistence, much like an army training exercise. On two of the “Buggary Bumps” my scrambling skills were sorely tested. A 5m cliff being impossible to scale due to its slippery nature and a lack of climbing gear. I was fortunate to sidle around it clinging onto roots around a cliff, at times getting down on all fours, getting absolutely saturated in the process. On other occasions a rope was necessary to lower the pack in order not to lose valuable balance. As the day progressed, I felt ever more alive and aware of the isolation of my physical being. My internal furnaces were keeping my core and extremities warm. My heart, lungs and adrenalin were at full belt. I almost lost the awareness of the sensation of thirst and hunger as my brain was in overdrive handling the spatial and navigational tasks that were required continually. As long as I knew where I was and that I was making some sort of progress, however slow, I was happy. One lapse of concentration and I could fall to my death, or severe injury, not to be found for days later. These were indeed sobering thoughts that put a caveat on any over-confidence I might have in other areas. Thoughts went to Kate & Barbara who were due to pick me up the next day. I hoped they were OK and not experiencing the same ghastly conditions as I was. They seemed to be so far away from this current situation. I only had my own private thoughts and positivism to keep my morale up. Every now and then thoughts went to Krista and other people close to me and hoped not to disappoint them due to an untimely lapse of concentration. Before long I was upon Haven Lake, which I’m sure was a bit of a piss-take, as it was anything but a haven. At 888m it was exposed to the prevailing winds and presently shrouded in mist. I stopped briefly to munch on a piece of chocolate and gulp down some water from the outlet stream. The ascent up to Mt. Scorpion was supreme, the mist and rain clearing sufficiently to reveal the splendours of Lake Mars below with its little tea stained beach, surrounded by the barren crags of Mt. Aldebaran, Mt. Scorpio and Carina Peak. My spirits started to rise a lot, seeing these views. Mount Scorpio itself was a cragged slope of broken rakish quartzite which provided some interesting and exciting scrambling. Surprisingly, my rate of progress was quite a bit quicker than John Chapman’s route guide. I attributed this to the lack of stops for breaks and views, and the inevitable reduction of speed when travelling with a group. The only stops I made were for the occasional photo when the mists cleared, a cup of water or a fruity jube. The weather seemed to be clearing a bit, a bloody shame since I was walking off the range shortly. My hasty progress encouraged me to descend off the range, the same day, rather than endure another potentially miserable night. The descent down Morraine K was swift, my ears popping with the quick descent. Before long I was at the junction of Seven Mile Creek, near the Huon River. The last hour of light was spent busily drying gear, enjoying hot cups of tea and relishing the calm conditions again. Again, I slept a bit uneasily.
Monday 23rd November
I spent an hour in the morning, enjoying a superb breakfast and packing in the warmth of the sun which had returned after three days absence. It was tempting to go back up!! The walk out along the Arthur Plains to Junction Creek was a bit slower than John Chapman’s estimate. He must have been a proverbial greyhound! There were several muddy sections near the creek crossings which slowed things down somewhat. The creeks and especially Two Mile Creek were very pretty, the water in them having the same colour as iced tea, from all the tannin pigmentation. The shallow valleys through which these creeks passed were refreshingly green and cool after the tedium of the buttongrass plains. The vistas up to the Arthur Range were enviable, considering what views I would get from them now. At last after a seeming eternity I arrived back at Junction Creek, washed the boots off my mud and enjoyed a hearty meal of deb and minted peas for a late afternoon tea. The day was quite warm and I was down to my shirt sleeves. The final stage back to Scotts Peak Dam was a little sluggish in the lowering sunlight. I never like retracing my steps at the best of times, especially if they’re muddy. I checked the time from the watch in my pack after crossing the creek and realised that I had better step on the gas in order to meet Barbie and Kate at the 6.30pm rendezvous. Finally I reached the boardwalk express of the new track, the Arthur range receding quickly in the background. I signed out at the shelter, only three walkers having started that same day to do the walk. It was amazing to see the car, Kate and Barbie with the esky out. They must have read my thoughts and presented me with a bottle of champagne and a longneck of Boags Draught to accompany a lovely certificate they had drawn up while they were waiting. The sun barely an hour from setting. This was heaven and I was elated to be back. We were all in terrific spirits as we swapped tales of our four day separation. The night back at Mt.Field was very enjoyable. I’d do it again, but my boots wouldn’t.