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”.

climate change: kosciuszko xmas

On day seven of our nine day journey through Kosciuszko National Park, we left our base camp at Tarn Bluff, followed the watershed of the Geehi river north and contoured around a large hill peppered with granite tors. Several kilometres to the northwest, the rugged southeasterly peak of Jagungal loomed. Having climbed Jagungal thirteen years earlier, I readily anticipated reaching its summit once again. Even so, environmental change is an essential characteristic of mountain life. Wind and rain, snow, ice, fire and drought; Kosciuszko's ecology is constantly evolving. But unique mountains such as Jagungal become permanent landmarks in a bushwalker's imagination. So as we approached Jagungal via the Geehi watershed, memories of the exhiliration I had experienced upon attaining its summit thirteen years earlier were only tempered by the prospect of climbing Jagungal once again. Once upon the summit, while looking south toward the Main Range and Mt Kosciuszko, our party would then be able to clearly see where our trip had begun seven days earlier. This capacity to reflect upon the origin of a momentous journey is a truly satisfying aspect of bushwalking.

Our leader Jerry was a former rock climber who for his own reasons, believed he had stopped climbing too early in life. He had previewed the Kosciuszko-Jagungal trip in the club program as suitable for those ‘Who like to spend Xmas on the track’. A huge bushfire in the Victorian Alps had obliterated my plans for several trips within the Wonnangatta-Moroka sector of the Alpine National Park. A second alternative proposed by another bushwalking colleague was a five day lilo trip down the Snowy River. But when it comes to spending prolonged periods on water, I can be a wet blanket. So, a two stage trip comprising a four day base camp on the Main Range, followed by a five day pack carry deep into the Jagungal Wilderness, was tantalising enough for me to call Jerry and ask if I could tag along.

On the day before Xmas eve, in thick mist accompanied by intermittent downpours of rain, Lesley and I arrived at the Kosciuszko National Park gatehouse at 5.00 p.m. to discover that the required annual car parking fee had risen by approximately $ 100.00. The attendant’s explanation about financing a second sewerage pipe at one of the privately owned ski-resorts was not convincing. Having no alternative, we paid the fee. Then quickly arrived at Charlottes Pass car park; at which, Jerry and Rod had also arrived ten minutes earlier. After a quick change into our wet weather gear, all four of us were soon attempting to cross the swollen Snowy river, before heading for our intended base camp four kilometres northwest tucked into an unnamed creek valley directly beneath Carruthers Peak. The Weather Bureau had forecast snow for both Xmas eve and Xmas day. Although not explicitly stated, it was clear there were expectations of a possible ‘White Xmas’ prevalent among the group.

The Weather Bureau had made inaccurate forecasts in the past, and this proved to be the case once again. Next morning, Xmas eve, up and out of our tents at 7.00 am, the previous night’s rain had been replaced by a blustery wind from the east. Under a clear sky, yet with a heavy pall of humidity in the air, we quickly prepared our daypacks for a 9.00 am start. Our walk would take in the prominent peaks of the Main Range, and culminate with a climb to Mt Kosciuszko; before contouring around the southeast flank of the robust Mt Clarke and ascending a shallow valley to Club lake.

High above the treeline, we marvelled at the rocky theatre of Mt Townsend, Mt Alice Rawson, and Abbot Peak. Scuttling along the crusty remnants of an old firetrack etched into the western edge of the ridge, we were captivated by the petite blue-green expanse of Lake Albina; before it dropped out of sight into a vortex of ice carved granite and punctuated shadow comprising Lady Northcotes Canyon. The primeval force of an ice-age 10,000 years earlier, and its sculpting of the Main Range, is unique upon the Australian mainland. So unlike the Victorian mountains, within which I had spent my formative bushwalking years. Thirteen years earlier, when my brother and I had traversed the Main Range during our journey along the 750 km Australian Alps Walking Track, the range had remained concealed by low cloud. But now that I was experiencing the remarkable precision of nature on a clear day, it was as if my memory of that first experience was itself in the process of being altered by this glacial landscape. Separating the experience, pushing memories to one side, then carving out a new appreciation of the landscape as it unfolded before me. Kosciuszko National Park is constantly evolving, but so too are our perceptions of what it has to offer, and I soon found myself vowing to one day return to its excruciating beauty as we left the Abbot Range behind and began our ascent toward Kosciuszko’s summit.

We did not spend much time on the summit of Kosciuszko. Apart from acquiring the somewhat smug sense of achievement that accompanies climbing Australia’s highest mountain, the summit is now the domain of daytrippers from the several ski-resorts encircling the Main Range. Leaving 50 odd people to enjoy the view, we left the track and headed across open grassland, skirting northeast around the base of Mt Clarke, then ascending the valley of Club creek to its namesake, Club lake. A pocket of aqua coloured water hidden between Mt Clarke, Mt Lee, and Carruthers Peak, the lake's isolation was in stark contrast to the populated summit of Kosciuszko. As we strolled back to our base camp this was a curt reminder that the Main Range is a curious mix of the civilised and the remote; a somewhat uncomfortable balance of polarised interests maintained by the New South Wales parks and wildlife service. Nevertheless, camped beneath the tranquil shoulders of Twynam and Carruthers peak, it was easy to forget that the Main Range is surrounded by a handful of ski-resorts and is the origin of the monumental Snowy Mountains Hydro electric scheme.

That evening, Lesley put the rest of us to shame by being the one member of our party brave enough to swim in the paralysing water at 2000 metres altitude, directly beneath Carruthers Peak. Cold the water may have been, but it was nothing compared to the unexpected drop in temperature we would experience over the next two days. Seduced by the majesty of the Main Range, combined with the Weather Bureau’s (slightly) inaccurate forecast, I distinctly remember saying to others in the group:

“Something pretty strange will have to occur overnight if we’re going to have a White Xmas”.

Pretty strange indeed... When I woke at 5.00 am on Xmas day to the sound of hailstones pelting the side of my tent, I only became convinced of a White Xmas when at 8.45 am the rattle of hail was replaced by the familiar sound of powder spraying across the surface of my tent. The snow would continue for two days. The temperature would drop to somewhere approaching -10 degrees. My fifteen year old sleeping bag was definitely not the bag it had once been. By Wednesday morning, I would understand in my bones, toes, fingers, head and feet the painful implications of a White Xmas on the Main Range.

After countless cups of tea, and several hours lying on my back studying a speck of fly excrement, Jerry, himself experiencing ‘Cabin fever’, suggested a short walk two kilometres east to Blue lake. Still snowing, it was a revelation watching snow collect in the dark seams comprising the sheer face of Mt Twynam, overlooking the lake; thereby outlining the three glacial moraines that 10.000 years earlier had descended from the Great Dividing Range, scooping out the thirty metres of rock that was now Blue lake. But our visit would be brief. Driving wind and snow, along with ice accumulating on wet weather gear that gave us the appearance of walkers cast in statuesque bronze, soon saw us retreating to the relative comfort of our tents. As snow continued throughout the night, tents froze, and the temperature approached -10 degrees, I woke at 3.00 am feeling like an icicle. Remaining immersed within my tatty sleeping bag, I also shoved my feet and legs into my empty pack, covered the rest of my upper body in a goretex jacket, overpants and groundsheet, donned a heavy woolen balaclava, and after a short period shivering, felt my body temperature rise to an acceptable level. Although still cold, I managed three hours sleep. Upon waking at 6.00 am I was glad to replace my ‘Freezer bag’ with the rest of my clothes and a hot cup of coffee. Peering outside through the fly, there was six centimetres of snow covering the ground surrounding our tents.

*

Wednesday morning, 5 30.a.m., and a red sun rising in the east cast a palpable glow on one side of my tent. (Boxing Day, six centimetres of snow, and a daywalk to Watsons Crags, Little Twynam, and Blue Lake, this time in fine weather, had passed us by as if events occurring in a dream). Stage two of our trip, consisting of a five day pack carry following the Great Dividing Range fifty kilometres north to Mt Jagungal, was about to begin. But before we could start, Jerry, Rod, and Lesley returned to Charlottes Pass and picked up pre-prepared five day food parcels. Four hours later, once Jerry, Rod and Lesley returned with fresh supplies, (during which I had spent the morning cleaning my tent), we were away on the track over Mt Twynam.

Immediately, both the landscape and my appreciation of it transformed. The previous four days spent above the treeline were replaced by a windswept silence punctuated by intimidating formations of ancient rock. A sombre mood settled over the group as we scampered along a barely discernable firetrail. According to our navigator Jerry, the track we were walking along had developed a life of its own. Instead of following the obvious route between two landforms, the track bobbed and weaved around and beyond the exposed faces of Mt Anderson and Anton, somewhat indirectly winding its way toward Mann Bluff. Rock, confusions of it, malformed rocky ledges and outcrops of stone; the stuff loomed all around us, resembling a moonscape that emanated a strange sense of what life might have been like if stranded upon an alien world. Added to this mix of stone and incremental afternoon shadow, sunlight descended through a prism created by a sky emblazoned with monumental cumulonimbus cloud. Past experience had taught the amateur photographer within me that these anvils of gas and myth often forged fading light into luminous evenings. So, as we climbed toward a saddle separating Mann Bluff from Mt Tate East Ridge, I quickly erected my tent then submerged myself in experimental camera technique.

Sublime evening it proved to be as Jerry, Rod, Lesley and I were dumbstruck by that chameleon Mt Tate, as its sculpted peak refracted the sinking sun in a transcendental display of yellow, orange, and red, then purple and crimson; before once again reverting to inanimate rock as the last curve of the sun fell below Robertsons Ridge, hovering above the valley of the infant Geehi river. Does change in the landscape without, initiate change to the landscape within ? Maybe... But if so, then Tate’s performance on that sublime evening should remain Kosciuszko National Park’s best kept secret.

Next morning, Thursday the 28th, and fast approaching the end of one year and the beginning of another, a spiteful easterly wind cornered us on the summit of Mt Tate, then harassed us as we plodded through Alpine grass, (trying to avoid treading on delicate patches of sphagnum moss), while crossing the notorious Rolling Ground. A perplexing undulation of exposed granite oscillating at 2000 metres altitude, The Rolling Ground runs south to north and separates the Geehi and Munyang rivers. Even in fine weather, it can be a difficult beast to navigate, and seems to extract a sadistic pleasure in challenging the ability of walkers who fancy themselves with map and compass. But Jerry had a secret weapon: a G.P.S., which he quickly produced from his pack, before using its grid reference capacity to locate his exact position. The 2003 bushfires had also helped; clearing much waist high scrub and creating a vast procession of skeletal snowgums stretching across the Munyang river valley and beyond, toward the nordically inclined Gungartan. Immediately after lunch, we first descended a shallow creek valley, then picked up a faint firetrail, dropping 300 metres in altitude before ending at Whites River Hut. After a quick glance into the hut’s interior, Jerry suggested the ambitiously named ‘Schlink Hilton’ was a more sophisticated alternative: Rod, Lesley and I agreed. After a three kilometre road bash, we arrived at the Schlink to the possibility of sleeping in an actual bed for the first time in a week. Jerry and I jumped at the chance. But not before I conducted what soon became a strange, ritualistic search for bedbug infestation.

Without an electric microscope, it is impossible to ascertain the presence or otherwise of these blood-sucking parasites. When sleeping in a bush bed, a walker must take a calculated risk and become the subject of his own experiment. As with any scientific venture, precaution remains a top priority. Consequently, I slipped beneath my unzipped sleeping bag wearing woolen Long Johns. (A bushfire precaution to counter the possible ignition and subsequent melting next to my skin of the rest of my synthetic clothing). As the heat beneath my sleeping bag increased I removed the woolen undershirt and lay with my back upon the mattress. (Better to be bitten upon the upper torso first, as opposed to other, let me say, more delicate anatomical protuberances). After some time staring in the dark at the vague outline of a top bunk, I deemed it safe to remove my woolen leggings. This I did rather gingerly, then folded both garments by the light of a 3 phase moon saturating the interior of the Schlink Hilton. While listening to Jerry complain about the poor roomservice, I fell backwards into the first uninterrupted sleep I’d had for seven days. Waking early the next morning, my blood supply was fully intact. Over breakfast, I tried persuading Jerry that the Schlink Hilton deserved a five star rating. But, still muffed by the poor roomservice, Jerry refused to go past three. Eventually, four stars became the acceptable number for recapturing the common ground.

After a week of walking on faint traces of firetrails, open country, and foot tracks, we headed for the strawberry coloured Valentines Hut along a well defined firetrail. But not for long; straight after lunch, we left Valentine firetrail as it undulated west toward Grey Mare Hut, while we sauntered east at 1750 metres altitude across grasslands interspersed by granite outcrops, and into the Jagungal wilderness. Our destination was Bluff Tarn, and once again Jerry was forced to consult his G.P.S. when we became disorientated in country with few distinguishing landmarks. Stumbling around the watershed of Valentine creek, we knew that we were close to our intended campsite. So Jerry and Rod dropped packs and climbed to a shallow saddle on the ridge; before soon returning with the good news that not only had they found our campsite, but the actual tarn beneath the bluff - roughly the size of a large swimming pool - contained enough water within which to immerse a body in bad need of a bath. Inspired by the thought of my first decent wash in seven days, we climbed toward the ridge line. But as we rounded the base of Strawberry Hill, momentarily, their came into out northerly view, Mt Jagungal. At 2061 metres altitude and six or seven kilometres to the north, its south-east summit beckoned, before once again becoming obscured by rock and trees comprising the ascent to our sheltered campsite. I had been on that summit thirteen years ago, and here I was thirteen years later preparing to climb the same mountain once again. What had happened in the thirteen years since I had last reached the summit of Jagungal ? Kosciuszko National Park had been decimated by bushfire in 2003, and feral pigs now inhabited the Jagungal wilderness. Yes, the park itself had changed, but what of myself ? What type of person had I become between 1992 and 2006 ?

Ducking my head beneath the shallow, drought stricken water of Bluff Tarn, the cloudy water rising from my disturbance of its murky bottom obscured any sensibility I had of past experience. So I settled for trying to make my body clean, rinsed seven days of sweat from my shirt and clothes, returned to our campsite, watched the sunset, and prepared for our last day on the track before new years eve.

I woke early, a faint hue of blue light beneath a ridge to the east. I was hoping to photograph a crimson sunrise saturating a particular ancient snowgum discovered the previous night. A thunderclap at 2.30 am, followed by rain and a lightning strike, had sent the natural world undercover. Unzipping my tent inner, then peering out from under the fly at the pre-dawn, I saw in my peripheral vision a large Huntsman attached to the inner wall of my tent. Too close, and too bloody hairy for my liking, I slapped the tent wall with the back of my hand. Of course, the Huntsman fell to the ground and immediately disappeared somewhere beneath the tent floor. I then spent an unnerving thirty minutes preparing coffee and eating breakfast while concerned about the exact location of the big spider.

An excess of cirrus cloud saw my expectation of a crimson sunrise diluted into a cream coloured light, resulting in an uninspired photograph. At 9.00 am we left our tents pitched at Tarn Bluff and began our climb toward Mt Jagungal via the headwater of the Geehi river.

*

A jet airplane flew high overhead; perhaps we were directly beneath the Canberra-Melbourne flightpath. Either way, as we slogged through Alpine grass upon our afternoon return from Jagungal’s summit, the plane’s presence in the sky above snapped me out of an introspective mood.

After thirteen years, reaching the summit again amounted to the perplexing sensation of having expended much energy, for very little reward. Upon our arrival, Jerry, Rod and I had attempted to locate ourselves in the present, by articulating the past. Rod had climbed to the summit seven times, Jerry had been there in the last twelve months, while Lesley, who had never reached the summit at all, had declined the climb and remained in the saddle directly east of the summit, where we’d had lunch. In the thirteen years since first climbing Jagungal, the surrounding landscape was as I remembered it: the same view north to Namadgi National Park, the same view south beyond the Main Range toward the Victorian border. Exhilarated thirteen years earlier, I, like the burnt out, bushfire ravaged landscape before me, at forty six and well into middle age, was feeling the effects of climate change.

Later, on New Years Eve, and after leaving Bluff Tarn, we traipsed along the valley of the Valentine river beneath the threatening presence of a complex electrical storm. Upon our arrival at Schlink Pass, the end of our trip was foreshadowed by a sobering stretch of steel pillion and humming cable that was the powerline leading to Guthega power station. At Whites River Hut, on our last night within an increasingly civilised wilderness, Jerry, Rod, Lesley and I pretended to warm our hands around a non-existent campfire. Laughing and joking, we also felt the weight of expectation that arises from having spent nine days living among the natural world, while the power lines above reminded us of the civilised society from which we had come, and which would soon be our inevitable destination. New Years Day we followed the powerlines to their source.

Upon arriving at the Guthega power station I was struck by the sudden contrast between the chaotic symmetry of the natural world, its windswept ridges, running water and granite peaks, and the dull, familiar angularity of the power station. Constructed with one purpose in mind, that of generating electricity, the signs warning visitors of video surveillance were also a reminder of the volatile state of world affairs at the beginning of the 21st century.

Before climbing into Jerry’s car in preparation for completing our car shuffle to Charlottes Pass, I impulsively snapped a photograph of three huge white hydro-electric pipes disappearing up and over a large hill. Shortly after doing so, I realised the eventual photograph would be meaningless. For it was as if I was once again trying to capture Jagungal’s image, some twenty kilometres to the north. As well as understand the implications of a visit to its summit while wondering what insights Jagungal would contain for myself, and the world in which I lived, when I would once again stand on its summit, revisiting my past with a clear eye and the benefit of high mountain insight. As much as Jagungal remains the same, each visit will always be altogether different. That’s climate change, and a Kosciuszko Xmas.

*

Ice age on the Main Range

Between an estimated 10,000 and 35,000 years ago, at the end of the Pleistocene era, a large percentage of the earth’s surface was covered in ice. Australia, particularly in its southeast corner, also experienced this extended period of glaciation. Periglaciation, a condition during which the surrounding landscape is subjected to freeze-thaw cycles, is said to have occurred across a 40,000 square kilometre area of the Australian Alps. But actual glaciation, where mountains are subjected to many thousands of years of permanent ice cover, only occurred within a 25-50 square kilometre area of Kosciuszcko National Park.

Today, incontrovertible evidence of glaciation can be seen throughout the Main Range. Cirques, moraines, grooved and ice polished pavements, roches moutonnees, boulder erratics and glacial lakes, are all clearly visible. Of the five glacial lakes surrounding Mt Kosciuszko, only Blue Lake is believed to have been gouged by a glacier. Disagreement exists around the formation of Club Lake, although there is some evidence to suggest it may have been glacially carved. Lakes Cootapatamba and Albina are moraine dammed: meaning each was a shallow volume of water blocked and prevented from draining by the debris pushed aside when a glacier carved out a cirque above each lake. (Hedley Tarn is not overshadowed by a cirque; still moraine damned, its formation is the result of a different geological event). Lake Cootapatamba may be the highest lake in Australia, but Blue Lake is unique in that during the last ice age, it gradually became a 30 metre deep bowl of ice: the result of three glaciers descending from different points on The Great Dividing Range. When standing on the southern shore of Blue Lake, the debris pushed aside by the overwhelming force created by these three descending glaciers, can be clearly seen today. This evidence of glacial activity across the Main Range is unique on the Australian mainland.

razor-viking: with a twist

It was November 2005, the Melbourne Cup weekend, and we had four days to complete the Razor Viking circuit. After spending Friday night at Muttonwood camp on the Wellington river, 20 km north of Licola, we drove up and over Mt Tamboritha, along the Snowy Range, and arrived at the Howitt car park.

Having just met the nine member party, I kept my head down and watched for indications of a group dynamic. Our leader, a tall, bearded man of Dutch descent named Jopie, produced a set of scales from his white Subaru Forester, and each member of the group rushed to obtain an accurate reading of the weight of their packs.

Jopie’s pack weighed 16 kg, John’s 15.5 kg, while Rod’s four day masterpiece barely recorded a reading at 11 kg.

There was much conviviality among those with feather light packs as they struck out at speed through the snowgums on Clover Plain toward Macalister Springs. While the unenlightened, myself included, brought up the rear under a humid sky and wondered what secrets in weight strategy had been denied us during our formative bushwalking years.

Lance, a nuggety man with a wild afterburn of grey hair, had decided not to chance his hand on the Razor Viking circuit. Instead, he would spend the following four days exploring the Howitt Plains area. We said goodbye at the top of Devil’s Staircase and Lance hot tailed it along a well defined track toward a comfortable night in a modern hut situated at Macalister Springs. For the rest of us the opposite was true. The next two days would see no well defined track, and no comfortable hut to retreat toward, if the weather soured.

From the top of Devil’s Staircase an untracked spur led north east, then east, during a 1000 metre descent into the valley of the infant Wonnangatta river and our first camp site. We would then cross the river, climb steeply out of the valley, circumnavigate an unnamed 900 metre hill, descend once again and cross a tributary of the river, then locate a narrow ridge running north north east; ending at a 1300 metre high point south-west of the South Viking.

But first we had to do battle with 300 metres of skin scratching scrub and a stubborn two metre tiger snake.

It was past midday and a significant change in the weather was apparent. Rain was forecast; developing that afternoon, persisting the next day, then clearing the day after. As we scratched our way through corrosive scrub, the cool alpine breezes that had been present above 1500 metres were replaced by a greasy humidity. And a scintillating morning sunshine was consumed by a diffuse curtain of grey cloud. Perhaps the sun’s disappearance was one reason why the two metre tiger snake refused to move. Rod, the man with the unbelievably light 11 kg pack, warned me of the snake’s presence as I stumbled forward through the scrub.

“That’s alright” I said.

“It’s probably more frightened of me than I am of it”.

Rod was not convinced.

“That might be so, but the snake isn’t moving. So tiptoe around it”.

And there it was, splayed across a rock, as thick as a sapling. Calm, but possibly dangerous.

A big snake moves quickly, and I was not about to be bitten. I took Rod’s advice and tiptoed from stone to stone, giving the snake much space. If a wall had have been present I would have had my back against it. But the big tiger seemed unconcerned; confirming the maxim that left alone, most snakes are harmless. It was the finest, most impressive species of tiger snake I had seen in quite a few years.

That night, camped in light forest with the southern bank of the Wonnangatta river close by, I recorded the day’s events in a notebook. The walk across Clover Plain had been a pleasant jaunt, while our 1000 metre descent had come off as planned. We were camped in an isolated spot and next morning we would embark upon an 800 metre ascent that would take us into the heart of a spectacular mountain wilderness, but already, there was something missing from this trip. What it was I could not say: the wilderness without is often as intangible as the wilderness within. But I was in little doubt that this absence would be filled over the next three days. Not, as often appears to be the case, by one single event. But more likely, by an accumulation of experience; one in which the entire trip would coalesce. That moment when the old path on which a walker treads ends, and a new path unfolds.

It rained all night and next morning when I woke it was still raining. Reluctantly, I emerged from my sleeping bag and pushed my head beyond the vestibule of my tent. A grey sky with an ominous green hue and not a single break between the clouds. Yes, it had rained all night and it was still raining. It now looked like this rain would continue unabated throughout the day.

But the rain stopped. Tent flys began to quiver. The sound of several pressure stoves blossomed in the gloom, and Hans emerged. A Swiss carpenter, his Handlebar moustache and superhero emblazoned cap indicated he was ready for action. It wasn’t long before the group had gathered at a site 100 metres upstream, where we intended to cross the rising Wonnangatta river.

There, Jopie outlined the day’s route. We were aiming for a campsite at Viking Saddle, a small clearing situated between The Viking and The Razor. The distance wasn’t great: approximately six or seven kilometres. But it would take a full day to arrive as we climbed 800 metres and attained two distinctive summits. Before negotiating The Viking’s north western cliff face, then dropping a steep 200 metres through uprooted mountain ash in an area decimated by a recent winter storm.

There are various methods for crossing a fast flowing, swollen river. Hans, that Man of Action, and being a carpenter, could not contain a biblical impulse. Fully clothed, he entered the river on the south bank and exited via the north. Like Moses parting the Red Sea.

Soon, we had all managed to successfully cross the river, and regrouped on the north bank while considering the next, and perhaps most difficult obstacle of the entire walk. A ‘One in Two’ climb out of the river valley to a small ridge running east to west, separating the Wonnangatta from one of its myriad tributaries. Steep, but short; yet combined with a 22 kg pack and overbearing humidity... Well, I need not say any more.

Once the tributary was crossed we fought our way through a patch of dense, wet fern and other harsh vegetation, before emerging on a pleasant slope that was the beginning of the spur to our first 1300 metre highpoint, south west of the South Viking.

As we followed the spur upward there occurred several changes in the landscape. The spur narrowed and turned to rock. Sub alpine grasses and mountain ash were replaced by protruding tufts of spinifex and the ubiquitous snowgum. The thick humidity present at 700 metres was swept away by the snap of an alpine wind. Cloud coagulated around us, the mist rolled in, and one of our party, Michael, a visitor like myself, disappeared from view.

The ‘One in Two’ climb straight after breakfast had curbed the group’s enthusiasm, but Michael appeared to have suffered a little more than the rest of us. Having some inclination toward the mysteries of first aid, and that almost transparent 11 kg pack, Rod left the leader’s group and joined Michael at the rear.

Nobody in the party had traversed, or knew of anyone who had traversed, this route to the South Viking. (I had dropped off the summit once before, but had chosen the relatively gentle descent of a broad spur further east). We did not know what to expect as we approached the South Viking in heavy mist. Until, the sight of a sheer, hulking perpendicular bluff that appeared to block any further ascent made its intimidating presence felt. Momentarily, it looked as if we would be forced to spend excruciating hours battling scrub in hostile country by pushing horizontally east, before Jopie’s navigational skill eased into gear.

Viewed from a great height we must have looked like a procession of colourful ants teeming over stonework, as we negotiated an interconnected system of channels in the escarpment, soon reaching the summit of the South Viking. The difficult aspect of the ascent was over: the South Viking, and The Viking, were connected by three low lying saddles. We hurried through each saddle, arrived at the summit of The Viking, hauled packs through a rock chimney, picked up the track to Viking Saddle, and descended through an apocalypse of trees ripped from the ground by a mini tornado.

I was thankful not to have been camped in the saddle on the night that monster tore through the bush. Hearing a fully grown tree hit the ground is unnerving enough. To have 50 or so crashing around a tent at night would have been a bushwalker’s nightmare.

A large group had already arrived at the saddle. With the inclusion of our eight tents, a small colony appeared. The sky cracked open once again, and this time the rain was permanent. Confined to our tents we were wet, hungry and tired. But we were well and truly alive. Not that there was ever any question over the safety of the party. But city life can dull the senses; and a sophisticated urbanite soon forgets his primal origins.

After an hour of heavy rain, the weather shifted. A noticeable breeze blew into the saddle via the headwater of the West Buffalo river. At dusk, a break appeared in the eastern sky. Someone from the other group had persisted in the rain, and lit a campfire. A strange shamanic conduit, it drew others to its primal dance. Shadows flickered across orange faces alive in the darkness, smoke rose into the night air, and I fell asleep and dreamed of prehistoric times.

As predicted, the rain cleared overnight. We were off early, picking our way through fallen timber as we climbed toward The Razor. To my surprise, there was such a thing as a promising grey sky. But an hour later, as we emerged from the forest and scrambled up the conglomerate slabs of The Razor, low cloud still enveloped the northern face of The Viking.

Even so, it was the first unrestricted view we’d had of the surrounding area for two days.

Standing on the crest of one of many conglomerate slabs there was visible the many sloping spurs and interconnecting ridges descending north toward the remote Catherine river. To the west, the Australian Alps Walking Track fractured as it struggled along intractable rock toward Mt Despair. This was to be our intended route for the day; the objective being Mt Speculation. But Jopie had other ideas.

Having walked the circuit several times I had never reached the summit of The Razor. Once on the summit, after a slow kilometre of rock hopping and trackless terrain, the side-trip proved eminently worthwhile.

An increase in temperature flushed low lying cloud from The Viking’s north eastern flank. The cliffs marking the Australian Alps Walking Track’s easterly descent to Barry Saddle appeared. Vertical, and like the weather beaten brow of a forlorn, lost explorer, the mid mountain cloud closed in once again and The Viking disappeared.

An hour later, after reclaiming our packs, we were back on the walking track leading west toward Mt Despair. In spite of slow going along the southern crest of The Razor, the mood of the group had lightened. The most difficult aspect of the walk was behind us. Hans was telling tall stories once again. We would soon be setting the pace along an obstacle free track over Despair and down to Catherine Saddle, a headwater of the Wonnangatta river. But as a gash in the cloud widened, and blue sky and sun appeared for the first time in two days, we discovered there was no irony intended in the name ‘Mt Despair’.

It was a relief to finally see the sun. But why had it chosen to appear, and why had the temperature increased, just as the ascent of Mt Despair began ?

In the past, a solid rest after considerable physical exertion had always left me ready and willing. But the cumulative stress produced by carrying a heavy pack through rough country for three days, was beginning to tell. And we still had the severe climb from Catherine Saddle to Camp Creek, just prior to the summit of Mt Speculation, to complete.

It was well past 5.00 pm as we descended the grassy, sun drenched western slopes of Mt Despair. After a hard day, this was not a great time for preparing to climb one of the higher mountains, (1630 metres), of the Wonnangatta Moroka sector of The Alpine National Park.

At Catherine Saddle, two routes presented themselves.

A foot track headed straight up the north eastern flank of the mountain. While the old Wonnangatta Track, (also ambitiously referred to as Speculation Road), followed the 1200 metre contour around the same flank, then ascended Camp Creek via a shallow valley.

Bob and Michael chose to follow the contour. I was tempted, but on a blind impulse followed Jopie, Rod, Tim and Hans over an embankment and up the hill.

Half way up, I wished I’d chosen the contour. Without exaggeration, I thought my lungs would pop. But after 20 years of bushwalking, during which I had walked the entire Australian Alps Walking Track, and been whacked by second stage hypothermia on Mt Anne in South West Tasmania, I had integrated into my bushwalking a highly sophisticated technique for dealing with mind altering pack carries up the steep flanks of mountains.

Growling.

Believe me, growling will get a beaten walker to any summit, anytime. Although the worried look I received from Hans suggested I had completely lost my marbles. But growl I did, and once again it got me up the mountain. Yet I was grateful that Tim, a trainee nurse, was also present. In case my growl became a heart murmur and I collapsed in cardiac arrest.

Finally, we reached Camp Creek. After some slow tent erecting, during which I found it difficult to recognise the front end of the tent from its rear, water was obtained from Camp Creek.

Bob and Michael arrived, a small fire was lit, and once again, cloud descended upon us; dampening everything except our spirits. We settled in for a restful night as the temperature hovered at five degrees.

We were high in alpine country, directly beneath the summit of a 1600 metre mountain. We may not have been able to see past our noses, but our bellies were soon full. For the first time during the entire trip the opportunity presented itself to sit around the fire and share what was already a memorable experience. From intimations of shamanic ritual and prehistoric dreams, to a bushwalker who chose to growl, instead of howl, when confronted by cardiac arrest. But soon, we were all so tired, each one of us silently slipped away, disappeared within a lick of mist, and quietly went to sleep.

Birdsong broke the silence; what species of bird it might have been, I had no idea. Instead of going back to sleep, I lay on my back in the dark as the bird’s repeated rhythms crystallised the thoughts in my sleepy brain. Somewhere in the valley below a second bird of the same species responded to the first bird’s solo. A fugue ensued; something was afoot in the natural world, I could feel its aura surrounding my tent.

A high mountain sunrise was one thing, but this show was otherworldly. Tim and I were up and out of our tents; captivated by a violet streak illuminating the tip of a distant mountain. No one else was awake. We were two children watching the birth of a new world. I had seen many a sunrise during my 20 years in the mountains, but this was THE sunrise.

After an hour frolicking in the mellow light of a glorious mountain morning, it was time to get serious. Before us lay the Crosscut Saw; a ten kilometre rocky spine separating the Wonnangatta and Howqua rivers, leading back to Macalister Springs. Our trip along the Razor Viking circuit was drawing to a close.

From the summit of Mt Speculation there was that descent through the bluff at Horrible Gap. During which Bob lost his footing and hung suspended in mid air from a rickety tree branch. There was also that climb to Mt Buggery, the name of which elicited a grim laugh from Tim as we encountered its sharpness. Without doubt, there was the pain derived from four days of cumulative stress upon a body that did not recover after the climb to Buggery’s summit. Every step, every adjustment of the load upon my back, every swivel of the hips and resulting unobstructed view into river valleys east and west, procured within me an ecstatic sense of the Victorian Alps: their inspiration, my infatuation, and the wonder that makes bushwalking in those alps an exhilarating experience. There was all this and more as we cracked jokes after meeting up with Lance on the heath at Macalister Springs, before arriving to fresh fruit at Howitt car park.

But that moment of truth all bushwalkers strive for had passed.

As we left Camp Creek and climbed toward the summit of Mt Speculation, that old path had ended and a new trip had begun to unfold.

Razor-Viking access

There are several conventional vehicle access points surrounding the Razor-Viking Wilderness area. But even today, each involves a considerable undertaking. The closest ‘roads’ into the area are the East Buffalo Rd. emanating from Myrtleford to the north; and from the south, the interminable Howitt Rd. From the west, the Circuit Rd. provides rough access for conventional vehicles as far as the eastern side of Mt. Stirling, but that’s about it. As for an easterly approach; well, the tracks are precarious and the terrain very, very steep.

For the first time visitor, The Australian Alps Walking Track traverses the celebrated Crosscut Saw, heads over Mt. Despair, then dissipates to a pad beneath the south eastern crest of The Razor, before continuing to Viking saddle. East of The Viking, at Barry Saddle, the A.A.W.T. can be followed in reverse. This is perhaps the shortest approach to The Viking’s summit, but do not be deceived. A climb up the mountain’s north eastern flank will test the hardiest walker. Several spurs approach the South Viking from the floor of the Wonnangatta valley. But once again, be prepared for some serious off-track walking. While an approach from the remote Catherine river to the north involves a waterless and dubious ascent through the north western cliff face of The Razor, and is not recommended. At all times, stay safe and enjoy your trip.