constellation western arthur

click photo for enlargement

Facade firm

We emerged from the scrub at 6.00 pm and stepped onto the edge of Arthur Plains. The persistent daylight accentuated the sheer northeastern face of the Western Arthur Range. Dave and I glanced at one another, but not a word was spoken. One week earlier while still in Victoria, my initial suggestion of attempting this dangerous bushwalk had been a source of inspiration. But from our first night’s campsite at Junction Creek, the actual task of walking this intimidating mountain range instilled butterflies in our stomachs. Unlike the Victorian mainland, the Western Arthur Range consists of genuine mountain peaks, precipitous cirque walls and glacial lakes sculpted by 25,000 years of prehistoric ice. So what had been consistently referred to by others as an ‘Airy’ bushwalk, now resembled a mountain-climb. Confronted by the insurmountable facade of the colossal Western Arthurs, it seemed as if Dave and I were about to enter the heart of some impenetrable darkness.

But quoting 19th century literary works by Joseph Conrad can result in an uncharacteristic gloomy outlook. So next morning, after Dave and I had arrived at the foot of Alpha Moraine, we joked and laughed with two Dutchmen who themselves were about to undertake the long climb toward the summit of Mt Hesperus.

Twenty five years younger and jumping out of their skin, the Dutchmen were a reminder that fresh legs are a distinct advantage when attempting such a steep climb. While Dave and I refreshed ourselves with much needed water from the head of Junction Creek, we watched as the two Dutchmen first disappeared, then reappeared above the tree tops as they darted up the northwestern crest of Alpha Moraine.

What we would have given to once again be twenty years of age. But those days had passed us by in the same way as we were now falling behind the Dutchmen, as they quickly became specks of carkee fast approaching the summit of Hesperus. So we hoisted our packs onto our shoulders and began what we anticipated would be a middle-aged plod up Alpha Moraine.

Half way up we came across the Dutchmen sitting on an outcrop of rock. They had lost a water bottle, and were about to head back down Alpha Moraine in an attempt at finding it. We quickly ascertained whether all was well and offered water and other forms of assistance, which were politely declined. Then feeling young and sprightly ourselves we completed the ascent toward Hesperus with consummate ease. (One consequence of treading similar paths in the Victorian High Country during the past twenty five years).

Our bodies were weary by the time we reached the summit, but we were also full of beans. Unexpectedly, the northeasterly facade of the Western Arthur Range now unfolded southwest across a broad plateau. As the first of thirty two glacial lakes peered above the shoulder of the ridge preceding Capella Crags, Lake Fortuna provided a seductive glimpse of what would soon become a constellation of new experience amidst unprecedented mountain stars.

Mountains in the sky

We lunched in a broad saddle southeast of the summit of Hesperus. While trying to ascertain the identity of a large body of water some distance to the south, the Dutchmen materialised, enquiring whether Dave and I were equipped with a length of rope.

They had conversed with a sombre yet relieved looking party who were travelling in the opposite direction, and nearing the end of their traverse. The party had informed the Dutchmen of the difficulties to come, and the once confident demeanor of the lads from Amsterdam was replaced by an obvious anxiety. Without a rope, and thereby unable to pack-haul at Mt. Pegasus and beyond, their traverse would become less an ‘Airy’ bushwalk and more a sequence of potentially dangerous scrambles over steep faces of rock.

Dave and I were only too willing to share our pack-hauling rope. But as for forming an alliance with a party unprepared, well, we had our own pre-conceived plan that would require adherence if we ourselves were to complete a traverse of the Western Arthurs. While the Dutchmen wandered around the saddle trying to locate a spot for lunch, we packed up, bid them farewell, and began our ascent toward Mt Hayes and Procyon peak.

Rock, rock, and more rock: Hayes and Procyon were two mountains negotiated within a profusion of frightening cirque walls, jagged peaks, and lakes Neptune and Cygnus appearing momentarily, before disappearing behind intersecting spines of stone descending into the valley of the Cairncross River.

Navigation was difficult; not because of a lack of skill in unspecified terrain, but because I often found my concentration wavering from a given navigational task. Instead of studying the map, I was looking up, around, and beyond myself in a vain attempt at comprehending the majesty of the monumental landscape opening up before us. After several blunders - mistakes I soon corrected for fear Dave might decide on mutiny - we arrived at our pre-determined campsite. Square Lake, a 300 metre diameter body of black water hidden beneath Procyon Peak, along with its 200 metre high cirque wall staring us directly in the face. All overseen by the setting sun’s luminous glow upon a monolith gouged smooth by glacial ice, we were rendered speechless.

While preparing our evening meal, and forever becoming distracted, the setting sun quietly disappeared. All that Dave and I could do was ponder this inhospitable canvas of inanimate quartzite: a cirque wall sculpted by nature across an incomprehensible expanse of time comprising hundreds of millions of years.

These unprecedented stars

Day three dawned beneath mist and low cloud, but as we rejoined the ridge southwest of Square Lake the rising sun revealed the track toward Mt Pegasus. We felt like we'd been transported into a parallel universe. Cirque walls separating Lakes Oberon and Uranus, Lakes Titania and Ariel, were reminiscent of the fins of ancient sailfish slicing through the cloud beyond Mt Capricorn toward our intended campsite at High Moor.

The profusion of high mountain peaks, their ridges descending into hollow bowls of rock containing brooding, tea coloured water, was mesmeric; particularly so when pack-hauling over Pegasus, or descending an improbable and vertically inclined gully while struggling to secure our feet within footholes kicked into the southwestern flank of Mt Capricorn. Yes, these stars belonging to this constellation were unprecedented in our experience. Dave and I had to work hard to sustain our concentration as the technical demands of securing hands and feet, pack-hauling, and generally keeping an eye on one another were eventually dealt with. We then climbed past Lake Ariel to greet a vicious southwesterly wind terrorising the stunted vegetation beneath the summit of Mt Columba, directly above High Moor.

Staring east over the edge of the plateau one hundred metres down to its lower, sheltered companion, we saw that the platform camps erected by Tasmanian Parks and Wildlife were full of tents. So we pitched our tent behind a rocky outcrop and successfully escaped that nasty southwesterly wind.

As the evening progressed and the sun began its descent toward a murky horizon, the wind died and their came into view on the horizon a distant band of grey. Uniform, and appearing to fuse with the sky, it was proceeded by the appearance of what might have been islands punctuated by inward thrusts of water. Dave and I eventually realised this could only be one geographical feature. Without realising it, the mysterious body of water we had been staring at since climbing Mt Hesperus two days earlier, was Bathurst Harbour. As the red sun inched beneath the skyline, islands became defined as those hovering off the southwest coast of Tasmania. The Southern Ocean, now sharp and outlined, hovered beneath a sunset that to our surprise, lingered like no other previously experienced.

Pondering the close proximity of Antarctica, I checked my watch. At ten minutes before 10.00 pm Dave and I were in a cavalier mood as daylight defied darkness. It was the farthest point south either of us had ever experienced. Dave, who had ridden his bicycle to the tip of Cape York, vowed to one day trace the southwest track to Port Davey and connect in his imagination the northern and southern tips of the continent.

I sat with my back against a rock, marvelling at the mountains of the southwest as they cascaded toward the sea. Where the Southern Ocean met the horizon, rose through daylight into a cobalt blue sky and became entwined with a single evening star, my reflections upon the natural world became transcendental.

Over the past three days southwest Tasmania’s notorious reputation for foul weather had thankfully remained unfulfilled. But even though The Roaring Forties had not materialised, there had always been an expectation of rain. With the complex traverse through the Beggary Bumps waiting for us at the southern edge of High Moor, day four descended upon our tent in a blanket of sleet and claustrophobic cloud.

I was up and eager to tackle the Beggary Bumps, but Dave thought better and suggested a rest day. The now persistent ache in both my knees concurred and we quickly packed up then scrambled down to the lower moor and the relative shelter of a less exposed tent platform.

Unlike ourselves, each party camped there the night before had continued their traverse of the Western Arthurs and disappeared into the mist. With High Moor campsite completely abandoned, Dave grappled with the difficulties associated with pitching a tent upon a wooden platform. Once the tent was up and we’d had a cup of tea, I immediately crawled into my sleeping bag. Several hours later, when I woke at 3.00 pm to the sound of unfamiliar and agitated voices, I elected to remain in my tent and eavesdrop upon the latest arrival at High Moor.

Like Dave and I, Phil and Rob were brothers, and from Victoria. After introducing ourselves, the cloud lifted revealing a pleasant afternoon, and all four of us relaxed among the white quartzite accumulating in a bluff above the northern edge of High Moor. In doing so, Dave and I gazed backwards toward the sequence of cirque walls separating Square Lake, Lakes Oberon and Uranus. It seemed entirely appropriate that Rob and Phil, who were travelling in the opposite direction, were similarly looking forward toward the same amalgamation of rock that we had just traversed.

They could only anticipate the adventure to come in the same way as we could only guess what waited for us beyond the Beggary Bumps. It was one of the more unusual experiences I’d had during 25 years of bushwalking. Two sets of brothers, each travelling in opposite directions, intersecting one another upon a mountain range named after planets and constellations within the earth’s solar system.

I do appreciate that the existence or otherwise of a so-called parallel universe is a speculative concept often overlooked by the bushwalking fraternity. (Discussions usually concentrate upon navigation difficulties, gear selection, the weather and other earth-bound topics). But if ever one set of brothers was to meet its double, each set seeing their own relationship reflected in the other, it was perhaps fateful that this meeting occurred during a bushwalk among unprecedented mountain stars comprising constellation Western Arthur.

Next morning, Day five, Rob and Phil dematerialised early, transported along the track to Oberon on the final leg of their journey. Immediately, we were in the labyrinth; winding our way along the twisting path circumnavigating the Beggary Bumps.

Misplaced for thirty minutes, we rightly decided not to leap three metres of a small bluff to the track below, for fear of breaking an ankle. Even so, the Beggary Bumps did not prove as difficult to negotiate as their reputation had suggested. Once complete, this difficult section of the Western Arthur Range would be over and we could look forward to easier walking. (Or so we’d been informed...). So after scaling the fins of The Dragon via the northeast, then being raided by a horde of march flies responding to a drop in altitude and a temperature increase, we soon arrived at the southern end of Haven Lake to be greeted by thousands of plump, black tadpoles congregating for safety right on the shoreline. I cooled my feet in the painfully cold water and the tadpoles skipped forward toward the centre of the lake. Our arrival at Haven Lake was a release from five days of the most thrilling bushwalking I had ever experienced.

Little lucifer

At many points during our traverse of the Western Arthur Range, we had placed our complete trust in overhanging tree roots and other foot and handholds. After a pleasant morning tea beside tiny Lake Sirona, then a quick ascent of Mt Scorpio, we left the Kappa moraine track and traversed west along the flank of Scorpio toward Lake Vesta. Finally, one of those many trusted tree roots snapped, and gave way.

Descending a steep gully, Dave was right behind me. His exclamation of shock was a natural response to watching someone plummet four metres with a heavy pack attached to their back. Fortuitously though, I had bounced down the gully on the bottom of my pack, coming to rest beside some Ti-tree.

Of course, I could have broken a leg... But didn’t, and after a hot, irritating walk around the northeast edge of Promontory Lake, we arrived at our campsite. The rise in temperature that accompanied our presence on the northeastern side of the range brought with it swarms of march flies. But it also warmed the waters of the lake. After a seductive swim we spent the afternoon first cleaning, then repairing our boots with Araldite; as the rubber was now separating from the mid-sole due to the stress imposed upon our boots over the last six days.

Day seven, and we embarked upon the final section of our traverse. Quite chuffed with our progress, we had been led to believe that this last section of the walk - from Promontory Lake to Lake Roseanne via West Portal Junction and Lucifer Ridge - was not as rugged and therefore easier than the previous stretch. But as we struggled through scrub toward the summit of The Phoenix, (immediately above Promontory Lake), we realised there was no such thing as an ‘Easy day’ when walking the Western Arthur Range.

I was stuffed by the time we reached the West Portal junction. Climbing The Phoenix and scaling Centaurus Ridge had saturated my clothes with perspiration, and I was hoping for an easy trip over the Crags of Andromeda and a skip down Lucifer Ridge. Still hoping I’m afraid... Learning the hard way, we soon discovered that Tasmania’s ridges and crags are at very least the equivalent of Victoria’s highest mountain peaks. Dave seemed to be coping with the physical duress better than myself, but when we lost the track just prior to the head of Lucifer Ridge and careered into impenetrable scrub, both of us switched to autopilot underpinned by an instinct for survival cultivated scaling cliff faces during our idiot teenage years.

Crashing through scrub along the sharp edge of Lucifer Ridge, Dave was twenty metres ahead when I felt a vague thump against my left calf. Desperate to rid myself of the corrosive mess we had descended into, I barely gave the thump a second thought. A minute later, when my calf muscle began to ache, I dropped my pack, rolled up my trouser leg and checked the muscle for its mysterious source of pain. When Dave asked if the two puncture marks just below the knee had swollen like a mosquito bite, I reluctantly agreed.

High up on the scrub choked rocky spine of Lucifer Ridge, daylight was fading fast. Of course, we should have sighted Lake Roseanne some thirty minutes earlier, but its presence continued to evade us. Furthermore, what was increasingly presenting itself as a case of snake bite, placed us in a precarious position.

We should have bandaged the leg immediately; the sensible course of action. Instead, frustrated, exhausted, and hoping against a rising sense of fear, as two middle-aged men enacting their idiot teenage years we just sat there for fifteen minutes.

After a prolonged silence Dave asked me whether I felt okay. I did, and in our own foolhardy way we both experienced much relief when, upon scaling one last rocky peak, the gentle complexion of Lake Roseanne appeared beneath a ridge line, along with the welcome sight of a track carved into the landscape and ending at the lake's sandy shore.

I became dizzy during our descent to the lake. Whether this was due to exhaustion or poison remained unclear. But after stumbling into the campsite at Lake Roseanne, resting for fifteen minutes and having a cup of soup, my heart rate still clocked one hundred and twenty beats per minute. Shutting the gate after the horse had well and truly bolted, I bandaged the leg, inclined face up on a sleeping mat, and waited for nightfall.

Next morning, a moody contusion surrounded the two puncture marks in my calf, but that was all. Perhaps the snake had chosen not to inject its venom. (Dave pointed out the frequency with which snakes deliver warning bites). Either way, with medical assistance several days if not a week away, I had been very lucky to escape the sting quietly hidden in one last flick of Lucifer’s tail

Returning to earth

Day eight began with Dave and I in a jubilant mood. Too quickly though, the Western Arthur Range became a jutting outline of monolithic rock disappearing behind us. The boardwalk across the southeastern perimeter of Arthur Plains had a specific purpose; preventing the spread of phytophthora or root rot, a degenerative plant disease. But the boardwalk also enabled us to pick up our walking pace. Swiftly, we arrived at Cracroft River, a short distance west of the Huon Track. Equally as fast, we were attacked by a marauding band of southwest Tasmanian march flies. A relentless and ferocious feeding frenzy, the all-consuming flies compelled us to seek relief in the quiet waters of the Cracroft.

Dave went for a walk, and when he returned reported back that he’d been confronted by a naked man kneeling beside the river attempting to tickle the bellies of trout. Whether real or imagined, the appearance of 'Naked man' became a running joke as we attempted to laugh-off the presence of those unbearable march flies. Civilisation was gradually encroaching upon what had been a monumental wilderness experience. With our traverse of the Western Arthurs almost complete, all that remained was a twenty five km slog northwest across Arthur Plains, a return to our bicycles stashed at Scotts Peak Dam, a three day ride to Hobart, a soft bed, real coffee, a nice meal, and time and space to reflect upon, and begin to articulate, our primeval experience of ten days amongst the prehistoric lakes and peaks of southwest Tasmania’s Western Arthur Range. But first, we had to escape those damned march flies.

Ground control

Next morning, day nine, our second last day on the track, saw us back walking on the boardwalk before veering west across The Razorback and once again, onto Arthur Plains. Mt Hesperus loomed to the northwest, and continued to loom, and loomed further still... Hesperus loomed for so long it began to take on the presence of a mirage. The more ground we gained, the further Hesperus regressed into the southwest Tasmanian wilderness. Sometime after 5.00 pm., hot and tired, we arrived at Junction Creek, back where we had started the walk nine days earlier, to be greeted by a violent electrical storm. (Days later, we would discover that the same electrical storm had started a sequence of successive bushfires and that other walkers would have to be rescued by helicopter).

Once the storm had passed, a spotted quoll with a wet, pink nose sniffed its way into our camp, before disappearing back into the scrub. The appearance of the quoll and the gentle note it struck seemed to be the perfect end to our traverse, but Dave and I were unsatisfied. So once again returning to the edge of Arthur Plains and standing in the same spot as we had done so nine days earlier, we hovered silently above the buttongrass while staring upward at the grand facade of the Western Arthur Range.

Nine days earlier, we had been apprehensive over the demands of a task we were yet to undertake. Nine days later, our traverse had been successfully completed. Yet we were not enraptured by a sense of conquest. Quite the contrary, for it was as if we had become entwined with a new lover.

In coming to know the Western Arthurs, we now understood a fraction more about the mystery of ourselves. We believed we could see beyond its impenetrable facade, and along its profusion of peaks and ridges leading south toward Bathurst Harbour and emptying into the Southern Ocean. In doing so, we also saw beyond our insignificant selves into the mysteries of the natural world residing within a spectacular mountain wilderness. Middle-aged, and sometimes regretful of our idiot teenage years, the experience derived from walking the Western Arthur Range is one of the great rewards of bushwalking. As photographer Peter Dombrovskis, who died of a heart attack near Mt Hayes in March 1996 once said: “When you go there you don’t get away from it all, you get back to it all. You come home to what’s important. You come home to yourself”.