Piddling down in Pine Valley

[Old Fart]

The Next trip with the two most amazing people you could ever walk with....


Semester break was upon us, like most students who do the uni thing we actually took some time off. Packs were thrown into the back of the car, as I offered reassuring words to worried parents that I wasn’t an axe-wielding psychopath and that I knew what I was doing. Zipping past Potenia rain had started to fall with a worrying hardness that persisted till we reached a cloud soaked Lake St. Clair. It also persisted for the ferry ride up the lake, and the nine-kilometre hike into Pine Valley Hut. Despite the constant rain, there was amazing beauty, the shine on the snow gums, the ancient smell of wet rainforest and the fast flowing waterfalls.
We soon reached the hut and claimed a spot together on the bunks and cooked tea. After a sustaining meal of dehydrated chicken and pasta, we discussed the adventures with those doing the Overland track. Of the sites, they had seen and the mountains they had climbed. We also created some post-modern philosophical, management and chemistry inspired reflections in the log book. Despite a fairly crowded hut, we all slept well, usually, there is one person who snores (or worst still sleep apnea). The day was clearer and from the composting toilet, you could see mountain peaks struggling to break free of their misty embrace. My companions repeatedly talked about the stunning pictures taken by Peter Dombrovskis among other wilderness photographers from the hills above us and were keen to see it for themselves.


Heavy packs were shouldered and we started the climb full of anticipation. Brief patches of sunlight penetrated the rainforest suggesting the weather was on the improve. Rainforest gave way to the sub-alpine forest as we climbed higher. Eventually, we reached the alpine moorland where the track levelled off. The morning’s sunlight was gone, replaced by grey swirling mists, which intermittently covered the three dolerite summits of Mount Geryon (named after the three-headed monster of Greek Mythology) and the pinnacles of the Acropolis. The Leeawuleena, the indigenous name for the dark sleeping waters of Lake St. Clair could be seen many kilometres below snaking off into the mists. We set off to find this evening’s camp, only three or four kilometres away as the rain started falling and the mists crept down. We lost the track on the way, we shared a good laugh about this as we quickly realised someone had put the markers in the wrong spot. But the weather was deteriorating further, the wind had risen and the rain continued to fall unabated. We were all cold, wet and tired as we arrived at camp.


A small problem had then arisen in the state of our affairs, the campsite was flooded. Too late to get back to the hut safely. Too tired to care we pitched the tents. Just on two o’clock in the afternoon, we had already dived into the sleeping bags. To cut a long and depressingly boring story short, we spent the next twenty-two hours listening to wind roar and the rain smash into our tents. We were miserable. Despite quality gear, we were getting cold. There are only so many times you can read the back of a pasta packet, thinking I should have brought a book. My endless collection of jokes, much to my companion’s evident relief was exhausted. Around lunchtime the next day we all noticed it was getting colder as the temp had started to drop further. It was time to go, we had a small window where it was not raining nor blowing as hard. Wet gear was shoved into packs, wet socks shoved into cold boots. We were off, just as the cloud descended, suggesting the window of respite from the storm was closing quickly.


*&%$#!. *&%$#!. *&%$#!. I thought to myself or was that one of my companions exclamations as I looked at two track branches in front of me, each clearly marked. We agreed to go left, it was the wrong choice, and it was always going to be the wrong choice in an area called the Labyrinth. Things started to become desperate. Despite the proper gear the wind was now cutting through our wet clothing. Flurries of snow had started falling, covering the ground. We were not in a good spot. Eventually, the clouds parted, we got a glimpse of Pine Valley below. Voices deranged by the cold suggested we plough down the glacial, cliff studded ridge into the valley below. I still cringe at that idea of the horrible scrub and cliff’ bands we would have faced. But that view gave us our bearings. The track down the hill to the huts safety was located just on dark. Out of the wind, we paused for some chocolate and to get the head- torches out. Despite the weather, despite being tired my walking companions stoically put one foot in front of the other as we slowly made our way back to the hut through the dark, deserted forest. One of the many reasons I enjoyed their company. The hut was a welcome sight. The intense smell of wet, worn for a week bushwalking gear left too close to the heater barely registered as we fell, exhausted into the hut. Nor did the delicate aroma of twenty-five people, un-showered crammed into the hut. But we were safe, cold, hungry, and tired but safe. As the rain continued to fall and the wind continued to howl we ate tea then drifted off to sleep on the hut's floor.


Next morning came by too quickly, some groans of discomfort emerged from the two ladies sleeping next to me. Groans that were worthy of a student’s lap top crashing with the only copy of their assignment. Groans that strongly suggests yesterday was rough. After the traditional Wheat Bix breakfast and cup of earl grey, we started heading towards home. Home from the hills that now had a heavy covering of snow. The conversation centred on my chemistry companion chaffing. Innocently I was shown the six centimetre thick, angry red band just on her short line, which would make a 100 miler ultra-runner quake in fear. The rain had stopped, but the grey gloom lingered as we arrived at the Northern end of Lake ST. Clair about 11. The ferry wasn’t due for another 3 ½ hours. We decided to walk along the rainforest rimmed lake-side track. Ent-like myrtles twisted with age, the sleeping waters, the ancient smell of the rainforest, vibrant green mosses and lichens were our constant companions as we slowly trudged back. The long day of twenty-seven kilometres, carrying a sodden twenty-kilo pack was taking its toll. One of the crew needed a shot of condensed milk and some hydrolyte as we struggled along the tourist walks at St. Clair. Eventually, we reached the carpark, as darkness was falling.


Most walks there is a sense of not wanting it to end, but this was a brutal experience. The cold, the wet, the fatigue took its toll. The fatigue was not helped by the near midnight arrival back into Launceston. A few days later we caught up at the climbing wall to show off the photos, heard the chaffing was healing and to reflect on our trip. Despite the weather, the beauty of Tasmania’s wilds was evident for us to see and to experience. Despite the challenges we faced we did enjoy it and we were all keen to get back out there together.

[DGF63]

Thanks for sharing this. May I ask a couple of questions please. What time of year? Were you very fit or 'average'? Were there many lone hikers?

Cheers

David

[Warin]

What time of year?

Ummm this is Tasmania .. not Queensland. I have had snow on Christmas day in Tasmania. Rain and snow should be expected at any time of year down there. Heat .. Queensland style .. is much less likely

[Old Fart]

David,

Like Warin, I have been standing in waist-deep snow on boxing day, so bad weather can and does happen at any time of year. Parks have some info about this. We were rather hard-core group, the ladies who were quite physically fit and had good gear even tho they were fairly new to bushwalking. Fitness will make the trip more enjoyable. There are some lone hikers that go through, some ending up hitching up with other groups, tho there is the find companions part of this site that would be worth a look

Hope this helps