In a comment on my last post (Mt Field West), Ken Bushwalker
makes a good observation. Despite
decades of Tassie bushwalking, I’ve hardly done any walking at Mt Field. (My previous post admits this was my first
trip to Mt Field West.) This illustrates
a few things.
Firstly, I now work as a guide in the Mt Field National Park
but my itinerary only takes me as far as Lake Dobson. I’m the first to admit that 100 trips to Lake
Dobson in the 2 years since moving to Hobart does not make up for not visiting
Mt Field West.
Secondly, there is such a HUGE amount of bushwalking
opportunity in Tasmania that a lifetime is not enough to explore it all.
Next, I’m guessing Ken Bushwalker is from another part of
Australia and doesn’t fully appreciate the regional divides we have on this
island. We certainly don't have the
distances found in other parts of Oz but, nonetheless, it does take some effort
to get around the island state.
Of my 44 years on the island, the first 17 were spent on the
Cradle Coast (Burnie), the next 3 in the North East (studying at UTas in Launie),
6 back in Burnie, 8 in Westbury (near Launie), 8 in Devonport and now the past 2 in Hobart. That means 42 years spent north of the 42nd
parallel. Treks "down south"
were a big thing growing up in Burnie.
During my first quarter of a century on the planet, resources were
limited so places within a fairly short drive were the order of the day.
From the age of 26 a delightfully serious case of
marriage/parenthood set in resulting in available bushwalking time measured by
hours rather than days (let alone weeks!).
My few sojourns south were to major icons such as Federation Peak,
Frenchmans Cap, Mount Anne, Southern Ranges and the South Coast Track. Mt Field didn't get a look in partly because
I always saw it as a poor cousin to Cradle Mountain.
Ouch, I can hear my southern friends wince at that last
comment. Perhaps some of them
agree. My very skewed opinion goes back
to strong childhood memories relating to contiguous wilderness and visible
human intrusions.
During my childhood, our many family trips to Cradle Mt
started with a drive through rolling farmland interspersed by densely forested
gullies. Beyond Wilmot and Erriba the
patchwork quilts of NW farmland were quickly replaced by pine plantations
surrounded by the ever deepening forested gorges of the Wilmot and Forth
Rivers. After Moina the wild, windswept
and often snow-covered Middlesex Plains evoked stories of tough mountain men
who eked a living from winter trapping and summer cattle grazing.
The journey had a sense of increasing wilderness as we got
closer to our objective. Finally we
would arrive at Cradle Mountain and it felt as if the wilderness journey was
complete. Beyond that point it would
take several days of walking to reach the next road to the south. If you headed south east or south west from
Cradle it would take much longer still to reach a road.
My first major summit was Barn Bluff at the age of 8. I had been to Marions Lookout several times
and marvelled that only tiny traces of human presence could be seen. The Dove Lake car park, the small Rangers Hut
near Little Horn, the distant air strip beyond Pencil Pine Creek and, beyond
that, faintly discernible farmland beyond Mount Roland. Barn Bluff impressed me much more than
Marions as evidence of human intrusion was even less. Apart from the fine threads of walking tracks
and a tower on Mount Read, apparently untouched wilderness appeared to stretch
forever.
At that time Wild magazine was a source of childhood
fascination. I had a sense that a place had
to be incredibly special to appear on those hallowed pages. Back then rock climbing was a significant
part of the magazine before it had spun off into its own publication. I remember marvelling at the antics performed
on various walls including those around Mount Arapiles in Victoria. One day, as I was perusing these images, I
noticed something was wrong. I could see
farmland in the background of a photo featuring an incredible-looking Arapiles overhang! My childhood sense of wilderness was
shattered. How could a place special
enough to be in Wild magazine have farmland so close? Where were the dozens of kilometres of
driving through increasingly wild terrain to the point where something as
civilised as farmland should be a tiny spec on the horizon? I was confused.
In the year I turned 10 I was introduced to overnight
walking in the Walls of Jerusalem. This
coincided with the Franklin River campaign which is another story entirely but
those events were shaping my thoughts and prejudices. When I turned 11 a Mt Ossa trip gave me the
opportunity to ‘stand’* on the roof of Tasmania. (*Actually it was more like ‘clung’ to the
roof of Tasmania – I went again the following year and, as a 12 year old, I was
confident enough to properly stand on that well-known summit rock.) The perceived wildness of the Ossa summit view
was very similar to what I experienced on Barn Bluff. Hardly any evidence of human presence at all
right to the horizon in every direction.
In these pre-teen years reading maps appealed to me much
more than reading books. Tasmanian
national park maps gained the most attention by far. I quickly learned the vast wilderness
stretching south from Cradle Mountain was not a feature of other parks. I learned that western parts of Mount Field
and the Hartz Mountains National Parks had been revoked and handed over to the
insatiable clear-felling timber industry.
I had been spoiled by Cradle Mountain.
The thought of being able to climb Hartz Peak and Mt Field West, only to
see the devastation of clear fell logging operations on the other side tainted
my view of those places well into adulthood.
It still affects me today.
Meanwhile, back in my beloved Mersey-Forth high country,
things were changing. Bob
(I’ve-got-the-best-eyebrows-in-the-business) Hawke was a legend in my eyes due
to his role in saving the Franklin River from Hydro development. However, that status did not last long. My trip to the Walls of Jerusalem as a 10
year old followed the steep Fish River Track from the foot of Clumner Bluff
down to the Fish River and straight up the hill to the Trappers Hut. After the two Ossa trips I was back in the
Walls as a 13 year old but this time the Horse Track had become the norm and
the Fish River Road was closed. I smelt
a rat.
Fresh from defeating the Tasmanian Government in the
Franklin River controversy, Prime Minister Hawke got involved in a stoush over
the logging of forests on Clumner Bluff.
Conservationists were concerned the forestry activity would bring
machinery and fire within 5km of the largest remaining native pencil pine
forest on the planet. The wet eucalypt
forests of Clumner Bluff were a vital buffer protecting the rare pines and Bob
Hawke boldly promised, “Clumner Bluff would not be logged.”
Shortly after being enthused by the Prime Minister’s promise
I was sadly let down. Apparently the
bulldozers were rolling and, to add insult to injury, they were using the Fish
River Road which I previously enjoyed as the most direct walking route into the
Walls of Jerusalem. My next trip to the
area was when I was 14 years old on a Scripture Union Boots n All camp to
complete the Pelion mountaineering circuit.
Sure enough, the scars along the face of Clumner Bluff were stark when
viewed from the infamous climb on the Arm River Track. The Prime Minister’s fall from grace was
complete in my eyes. Little did I know another disappointment was waiting just
over the hill.
Day 2 of the Boots n All trip was my first opportunity to
climb Mount Pelion West. The elevated
February Plains prevented me seeing the Clumner scars but looking to the wild,
wild west I was sad to see a new scar on the horizon. A massive swathe had been hacked out of the
side of Mt Murchison. What on earth was
going on? If I could see it from Pelion
West I knew the scar would also be highly visible from Barn Bluff and Cradle as
well. When I got home I discovered it
was the new Anthony Road servicing the Henty-Anthony power scheme which, along
with the King River scheme, would be the last major Hydro developments in
Tassie. These had been constructed with
compensation money given to the Tassie government in the wake of the
Gordon-below-Franklin Dam decision.
So… In a very
round-a-bout way, there’s how some childhood memories have given me a lasting
prejudice against Mount Field National Park.
Luckily, thanks to the 2013 extensions to the Tasmanian Wilderness World
Heritage Area, Mount Field has not become an island completely drowned in a sea
of logging. The tireless efforts of
conservation groups have protected the Upper Florentine valley which provides a
tenuous link between Mount Field and the world heritage area which stretches
all the way to my beloved Mersey-Forth high country.
Postscript: The above
ramblings may sound terribly naïve and I’m pleased to say I’ve matured in some
of my views. I am well aware that both
Forestry and Hydro have constructed the roads which access most of the areas in
which I enjoy my bushwalking. I am also
aware that increased protection for our forests means there is no longer a
financial driver to maintain many of those roads. Some younger walkers bemoan the loss of roads
to places like the Little Fisher Valley and some parts of the Meander Falls
area. Instead I see the longer lead-in
walks to those areas as a reminder of conservation battles won, changing
attitudes and a bright future for many of Tasmania’s wild places.