Lessons From Klaus

I found out a few days ago that Klaus was gone. He was 80 years old and my friend Robin Tivy has written a wonderful obituary. In some ways, it almost feels as if the end of an era has come and gone as Klaus was very much what is now known as “old school.” I only did one trip with Klaus and that was to be a trip of firsts where lessons were learnt that I carried with me across dozens of trips and even across to a new continent.

Klaus showing us how to get water when 

there are 3 metres of snow on the ground

Klaus came from the generation of climbers and skiers who navigated with paper maps and compasses. When we skied into Elaho Mountain, we were pioneering a new route into the area as the old route in was no longer possible due to road closures. Klaus led the navigation on that trip with a black and white photocopy of the topographic map. I am not even sure if he had a compass. Nevertheless, we were on that trip six days and when we skied back out to the top of the cutblock (logged area) above where we had left our cars, we were only three metres to one side of where we had left the cutblock. The paper photocopy was looking a little ragged but Klaus looked as fresh as ever.

Klaus track setting on the way to Elaho Mountain

It was the first of many Coast mountain ski traverses that we would go on to complete over the years and I was 20 years younger than Klaus – who would have been around 60 at the time – and yet I struggled to keep up. I remember the first day out, my pack felt desperately heavy (to be fair my pack was almost 50% of my body weight) and I had drunk all my water by afternoon and was thinking I might die if I had to ski any further that day. Klaus would have skied much higher before making camp but went easy on the skiers who had come from parts further east and had yet to be broken into the elevation gain that defines Coast mountain ski trips.

That pack

Klaus was skiing in a tiny pair of running shorts which, at first glance looked ludicrous as he had long skinny legs and was wearing double plastic AT (alpine touring) ski boots, but as I sweated and strained in my full-on winter ski kit I came to appreciate this as sensible attire at this time of year. On all my traverses after that, while I did not wear running shorts, I wore light coloured thin ski pants and short sleeved shirts. Never again did I run out of water from sweating too much.

Those nice hot thick black ski pants

There was one big descent on that trip of about 600 metres when we finally, after three days of travel, reached the Elaho Glacier and the start of the route up Mount Elaho. Klaus was the only person on the trip with AT ski gear, the rest of us (Robin, Betsy, myself and Doug) were all using telemark ski gear – also known as Misery Sticks. And it was misery. It was tough skiing with a big pack at the end of three long days with not so great ski conditions. Klaus was down at camp with his tent up by the time the rest of us had crashed and kick turned and, occasionally even linked a couple of telemark turns, down to the flat glacier below. After that trip, I switched to AT skis and literally never looked back. There is a simple wisdom in using the right tool for the job.

I think this is the Clendinning Range 

but I could be wrong after all this time

Over the course of that trip we climbed a number of unnamed peaks that lie along the glaciated terrain leading to Elaho Mountain. In fact, the picture on my Bivouac author page is taken on one of those peaks. You can see I am wearing a nice pair of thick black pants. As we climbed each peak, Klaus would make a note in his “little black book” where he recorded times and notes of each stage of our journey which would later be curated into an extremely accurate trip report. In modern times, the idea of making a note in a paper book with pencil rather than tracking the entire trip on GPS/Strava/CallMeAHero/TikTok (choose the latest “pimp yourself app”) seems quaintly outdated. But there are no batteries to die and no electronics to suddenly go “buggar up.”  For years after that traverse, I too carried a little note book.  I am not quite sure when or even why I dropped the habit.

Klaus in a rare moment wearing long trousers

Klaus, of course, was from the pre-social media era and how refreshing to meet a man as accomplished in the mountains as Klaus and yet who did not need to prop up his ego with selfies and exaggerated stories of daring-do. We could all take a lesson there.

Glen Rock and Peak 998 Circuit

Somewhere on the interwebs I stumbled across a description of a circuit walk over Mount Philp (not Philip as is often recorded) along a cirque of ridges to Glen Rock and then back down to Blackfellow Creek. I like circuit walks and was intrigued by talk of “razor backs” and “tough rock climbing routes” but, it was hot and we were still recovering from our long ocean kayak trip so the full circuit, over Mount Philp (910 metres) seemed like that might be too much of a good thing.

Of course, we had already been higher than Mount Philp the day before when we walked up Mount Marchar (937 metres) and the unnamed peak, at the southeastern acme of the circuit is higher than either Philp or Machar at 998 metres. Glen Rock, a small rocky turret which protrudes over the Blackfellow valley, also looked as if it would provide better views than Mount Philp. The topographic map showed a maze of old roads which descended down an eastern tributary of Blackfellow Creek and meant we could jump off the circuit near Red Rock avoiding the final 250 metre walk up Mount Philp and arrive back exactly where we had started at the Glen Rock slab hut information booth (worth a look).

We left four hours earlier than the day before so it was cooler but still warm climbing up the steep foot pad that runs up the west ridge of Glen Rock. If you go, look for this foot pad starting immediately to climbers (sometimes called “lookers”) right of the slab information hut and fairly clear through long grass. The foot pad is marked as an old road on the topographic map but it is just a foot pad and runs up the prominent west ridge of Glen Rock. As the terrain steepens, the track runs alongside a cattle fence for a while and then gets steeper and steeper as the ridge rears up before finally traversing about 10 metres below the short bluffs of Glen Rock to arrive on a flat ridge just north of Glen Rock. This would be a slippery track to descend.

An easy walk along a narrow rocky rib leads out to Glen Rock with views to the southeast up the Blackfellow Creek valley. There is certainly plenty of scope for rambling open ridges in this area. Glen Rock Regional Park is operated as an agistment cattle ranch and there are surprisingly good cattle pads along most of the remainder of the route.

From Glen Rock, a broad east-west running ridge is followed through pleasant open forest up and over a series of small bumps along the ridge until you should abandon the cow trails and walk eastward up gentle open slopes with shady trees to Peak 998 and some good fallen logs to rest on while you take in the view. Most of the cattle seem uninterested in ascending Peak 998 so there is no clear foot-pad along this section.

From Peak 998, an easy descent follows the height of land bearing roughly WNW until another short ascent brings you to a small rocky eminence with views of Red Rock, a short red rock bluff overlooking Dry Creek Valley to the east. The topographic map shows an old road here but we found no trace of the road and only a very scant foot pad. An easy but steep grassy descent between a couple of boulders (described inaccurately as “one tough rock climbing route between two bluffs”) is the trickiest part of the route as the next 100 metre descent is down very steep slippery high grass beside another cattle fence. Cows apparently do not like such steep terrain.

There is a bit more up and down along the ridge, now running almost due west towards Mount Philp before a prominent old road is reached about half a kilometre from Red Rock. When we walked down this old road (spring 2022) it had very recently been recleared by a piece of heavy machinery so was quite obvious, brush free and easy, if foot wearying to follow. The road is marked on the topographic map but not accurately as it actually switchbacks steeply down before crossing over a tributary creek (running well) to descend more gradually along the southern side of the tributary.

At around 400 metres ASL (above sea level), an old spur road branches left and in a couple of hundred metres rejoins the foot pad on the west ridge of Glen Rock, thus closing the circuit.

Ignoring Randoms: Walking Up Mount Machar

“You’re going to walk up now!” The woman is bellicose and belligerent. “Well,” she begins, clearly just warming to her theme “I hope you have plenty of water and,” her eyes scan me up and down. I’m wearing $2 K Mart shorts and a raggy tee shirt permanently smeared with bug repellent and previously worn to clean rock climbing routes. Oh, and Altras, which are zero drop running shoes, no heavy hiking boots, no gaiters, no broad brimmed hat, clearly I am an unprepared idiot at risk to myself and others. The woman’s face is red with indignation and she has more, much more to say, but I am tired of randoms asking me if I know that tides generate currents, that wind against tide creates rough conditions at sea, that because the moon is full the tide will be high, and a myriad other things that, for some reason random Australians must badger other people with.

A year or so ago, while innocently walking to my car with my weekly shopping load, some random woman accosted me and aggressively jamming her face well into my personal space demanded to know if the roof racks on my car meant that I paddled a kayak. When I admitted to this – apparently – dangerous and ludicrous folly – she followed on with a series of questions issued staccato style regarding where and when I paddled, with whom, how far, where did I launch, etc. It was a litany of inquiries from which I saw no relief and, when she found out where I normally launched my sea kayak – the little rocky cove five minutes from my house – she became even more perturbed and demanded that I immediately cease that practice as it was so dangerous that my demise, in an ugly crash was literally guaranteed.

It’s not that I do not sympathise with the desire to tell other people what to do. We all see things – or at least we think we see things – so much clearer in others than ourselves. Walking past the doughnut shop outside my local grocery store, I frequently feel compelled to shake the obese, florid and heavily immobile doughnut eaters and shout “that is not a healthy choice!” But, it is not my business, just as my walking up Mount Machar in the middle of the day is not the business of combative campground woman.

After all, it is only a 13 kilometres to walk up and down Mount Machar, all on old fire trails, albeit with scant shade, and, with just about 600 metres of elevation gain, walking to the top and back should be within the abilities of anyone who professes to be a healthy human. There is a bit of a view over the valley from the “lookout” about 100 metres above the valley, and then only sheltered glimpses through the trees until a cleared area around a radio antenna gives more open views across to Glen Rock and Mount Philp. The top itself, is broad, flat, covered with trees so, as with many bushwalks in Australia, the walk is about the journey not the destination.

Truthfully that 600 metres in the antipodean sun with no breath of wind and scant shade felt a bit of a grind, coming, as it did, a mere two days after we had finished a sea kayak trip of almost 500 kilometres of complex and complicated paddling over the last 19 days. Hubris, it appears, does not belong solely to the young. Ageing athletes have their own arrogance if they expect, as I did, to perform as normal with no recovery after what amounted to a series of 12 back to back marathon paddling events, while carrying 40 or 50 litres of water, assorted camping gear, and food for three weeks. A touch more demanding than your average marathon with aid stations every ten kilometres.

If you do enough long trips you realise that the idea that you can train for the trip while you are on the trip is foolish, and, that after a certain period of time, the SAD principle (specific adaptation to demands) no longer holds true and your physical capacity, rather than improving, begins to inexorably decline. That was definitely my position, but, random busy-bodies notwithstanding, I still made it up and down Mount Machar in about three and a half hours, which, for a beaten down old lady is a perfectly respectable time and proves that I am still a healthy human.

Moving Shit Around: A Training Review

The big Queensland kayak trip is done. 483 kilometres in 16 paddle days. That is an average of 30 kilometres a day, except the kilometres were not so evenly distributed. A couple of days were only 16 kilometres, while other days were 40 kilometres and our final day was 48 kilometres. On top of the paddling, there is what I call “moving shit around.” In fact, I am more and more convinced that kayaking trips are basically made up of morning and evening intervals of “moving shit around” interspersed with a little bit of paddling.

PC: DB

When the waters you are paddling happen to be in the area with the second largest tidal movement in Australia (exceeded only by Derby, Western Australia), moving shit around takes on a whole new meaning. Tide ranges in Broad Sound and nearby waters range up to 8 to 10 metres at the highest tides, and 6 metres is exceedingly common. Moving shit around involves long carries of heavy gear, litres and litres (up to 50) of fresh water (for drinking) and boats over dry reefs, slippery rocks, and soft sand. If you get lucky, you might be able to do half of this with the tide relatively high, if not, expect to walk a couple of kilometres all up by the time all the shit is moved around. This process consumes two to three hours a day. Moving shit around is not something people generally factor into their training programs before their trip but adding loaded carries (one of Dan John’s five must do foundational human movements) is probably a good idea.

After the big trip is over, and the week of clean-up (the house, the car, the caravan, the garden, the laundry room sized pile of laundry) is done and the next training block is started, I like to look back, a debrief of sorts, and consider what changes I would make next time. Essentially, was my training and nutrition strategy as good as it could be?

PC:DB

As usual, I thought my training block was a little short. I had a jacked up shoulder that took some home rehabilitation work and chiropractic to heal (the result of experimenting with training to failure as described in The P:E Diet) which cut short my training block. Consequently, I did not put in the big mileage that I put in before crossing Bass Strait, and focused on shorter, faster efforts. I still did all my training on the ocean under varied conditions. Like everyone else, I am always tempted to take a quick run up the river instead of dealing with the wind, the swell, the clapotis, and the currents that are the reality of ocean paddling but this is where specificity is important. If you are going to paddle on the ocean, train on the ocean.

This training block I kept up with my general strength training. This helped with the extra requirements – the moving shit around part of the trip. When we were training for Bass Strait I was so focused on making sure I could do the several long crossings that are required (two crossings of about 50 kilometres and one of 70 kilometres) that I was often too fatigued from long ocean paddles to get my strength training done. With Bass Strait well into the rear view mirror, I knew that I was physically and mentally capable of completing the required crossings and did not need to prove that to myself again. Consequently, my longest training paddle in the last block was only about 30 kilometres. This is one of the factors that meant I was able to keep up with my normal strength training.

I was getting fatigued towards the end of the trip. There are so many things that can cause fatigue on these long trips that it is pretty much impossible to work out which is most or least important and which can be ameliorated with better planning and preparation. All long trips cause fatigue; no-one ever “got fit on the trip,” although multitudes of people have bought into that strategy.

PC: DB

The top five things that cause fatigue on trips are:

1. Poor work capacity. A bit of a generic catch all term which basically means you can move lots of shit around with reasonable speed for a long time. Requires both aerobic capacity and muscular strength and endurance.

2. Poor aerobic capacity. You might be able to bench press three times your body weight but if your aerobic system is poorly developed you will fatigue rapidly. I meet a remarkable number of sea kayakers who have poor aerobic capacity.

3. Poor nutrition. This is tough on long trips. It is hard to take adequate high quality protein to facilitate good recovery. Crushed up Weetabix (as disgusting as it sounds) is NOT a nutrient dense food (actually Weetabix is a food like substance).

4. Inadequate technical skill. There are a lot of arm paddlers out there and a lot of people who do not train under the conditions in which they will be paddling. Both arm paddling and being gripped rigid with fear because the conditions on the ocean are NOT the same as the conditions on the lake/river will fatigue a paddler quickly.

5. Inadequate mental preparation. In my mind, this is just as important as physical skills and capacity. Heading off on long trips under challenging conditions requires a certain belief that your skills and capacity are adequate to the task. Simply put, you have to believe you can move shit around under a variety of conditions to actually move shit around under said conditions.

If I were to add a sixth item, it would be the inability to get proper sleep. A good tent, sleeping pad, and decent sleep hygiene (go to bed early, get up early, don’t nap or drink stimulants later in the day), this is stuff we all know. But you also need to know how to turn the mind off. You simply cannot be worrying about what challenges the next day will bring.

PC: DB

I learnt this lesson over 30 years ago on the first big ski traverse I ever did (the Southern Cariboos traverse). Every single day on that trip entailed travelling across bits of terrain that literally wanted to kill us. From the first day when we remote triggered a series of dry slab avalanches to the last day as the crevasse bridges crumbled underneath us, the entire eight day trip was made up of a series of terrifying bits of skiing and climbing. There were five of us on the trip and each evening when we made camp we were somewhat surprised to find that we were still five and no-one had died during the day.

When we put the tent up at night, that flimsy piece of nylon became, in my mind, a fortress. I was safe, I could sleep, eat, drink tea, relax. I would not and did not worry about the next days troubles. They would come whether I ruminated over them or not, so far better to not. Ever since that trip I have been the same. The tent is up, I crawl in and immediately let the outside world do what it will – even if it involves flooding the tent.

Visiting Skull Rock

For two weeks, Quick Nick had been talking about Skull Rock, a kilometre east of Derwent Island which is itself about 65 km east of Mackay. So, as we paddled north on a 500 kilometre off-shore journey from Bangalee to Seaforth, we knew that camping on Derwent Island had to be a “thing.” After all, this was Nick’s first Queensland paddling trip and we wanted to make it memorable.

PC: DB

It is 42 kilometres from the beach on the southwest side of Prudhoe Island to the tiny patch of sand on the north side of Derwent Island where we hoped to land and camp. The tide floods south and ebbs north at up to three knots and, coincidentally, the moon was due to be full that very night. On the only windless day of our 19 day trip, we left Prudhoe Island about an hour before tide change and slogged along under an over-bearing sun for an hour at a slow feeling 5.5 km/hour before the current changed and we gradually paced up to a much more respectable 10 km/hour.

PC: DB

There are two tiny patches of white crushed coral sand on the south side of Derwent Island but even optimists would not think about camping here as at high tide the island rears straight up from the sea, a wreck of car sized granite boulders and steeply inclined slabs. Paddling around the southern and western side of the island we passed over a gorgeous coral reef with big drop-offs, gutters and coral bommies. The water this far off-shore is clear and aquamarine and we could see colourful tropical fish buzzing around below us while sea turtles flippered gracefully by.

PC: DB

On the north side of the island, behind a fringing reef there was a small patch of sand backed by steeply inclined granite slabs and more large boulders. There is no flat ground, just slabs and boulders to the 131 metre high apex of the island. We landed the kayaks and optimistically declared the site “wonderful for camping.” Based on previous wet sand tide marks, we were all completely confident that we would be a satisfying 30 centimetres above the evening high tide.

PC: DB

The tides are weird in this part of the world. At Prudhoe Island, high tide at 2216 would be 6.40 metres while due north of Prudhoe Island at Scawfell Island (almost exactly in line in an east-west direction), the tide would be only 5.27 metres at 2216. There are no tide charts for Derwent Island, and I can only say in our defence that we hoped the high tide would be the lower rather than higher figure. We were also highly motivated to make this campsite work as we had: (a) not yet paddled around Skull Rock – which absolutely must be done; and (b) would either have to paddle 11 km in the wrong direction (east) to find another camp, or even more tiring to think about, paddle another 31 kms in the right direction (west) to Scawfell Island.

PC: DB

As we still had to haul our mounds of gear, drinking water and kayaks a couple of hundred metres over a dried out reef to camp the enthusiasm to paddle any further was not merely lacking but absent. Making good use of judicious pieces of drift wood, a sturdy platform for the kayaks to rest on for the night was constructed and the kayaks juggled into position. With another handy piece of driftwood we made ourselves luxuriously level sand tent sites, perhaps the best of the trip. Then, as a huge full moon rose over the cliffs to the east of camp, we settled in to enjoy this most unique night.

PC: DB

Despite feeling weary from the days exertions, sleep was hard to come by. The water, which had been lapping gently on the shore when 100 or even 50 metres away, was no longer lapping gently when a mere half metre away, and was instead surging energetically up the sand towards the tents. With admirable but ultimately misplaced confidence, Nick had drawn a line in the sand in front of his tent any point beyond which he claimed would remain dry. When I looked out the tent around 8.30 pm - a couple of hours before high tide – the full moon was dazzlingly bright and the line had been washed from existence.

PC: DB

By 9.00 pm our position had become indefensible. The tents had been manhandled up onto the boulders and were hanging akimbo, the tide was surging under the kayaks on their driftwood resting places, Doug and I were crouched on boulders above the ocean wondering if we could manage to sleep sitting up while Nick was lying on a sleeping pad on a roughly level car sized boulder drifting semi-comfortable off to sleep.

PC: DB

It was a long and sleepless (at least for me) three hours until the tide receded enough to toss the tent back onto the sand, our level tent pad now resembling a luge run, and fall inside to try and catch a little sleep. The next day was required a handful of No Doze pills washed down with a jug of double strength coffee before I felt equal to paddling east to Skull Rock.

Exploring Isla Gorge

The topographic map (1:100K scale) is, as expected, of limited utility when exploring Isla Gorge National Park. The contour interval (at 20 metres) is too large to show the intricate and steep or overhanging rock features and appears compressed by the scale. You can scramble up a slope you estimate, based on the map, will lead from the base of the gorge to the upper ridges, only to be stymied by overhanging cliffs with no break to pass through. However, with the average depth of the gorge only about 100 metres, any reasonably fit bush-walker will be able to walk up and down to the ridge line multiple times so if the first exit route does not work, finding another is not all that difficult.

The afternoon before, with a couple of hours of daylight in hand, we had walked along a ridge which first led east from the small campground. A good foot-pad was evidence that many people had walked this way. After half a kilometre, the ridge splits and we took the northerly trending ridge scrambling down off a rocky bluff to a saddle to the south of a line of three little rocky bluffs in a row (see picture below). The rocky pimple, atop the rightmost bluff in the photo is actually a separate rock bluff to the east.

The first bluff was undercut to the south and west so we scrambled around on slabs past many caves and overhangs to a broad saddle between bluffs one and two. Here, we found a scramble route up to the top of the second bluff and walked along the top until walking down the north side was easy. We were running out of daylight to walk up the third bluff, but it looked possible from the east. On our return, we contoured around the eastern side of both bluffs (for something different). The ground was loose and steep but manageable.

Next day, we descended to Isla Gorge Creek following a good, cairned (unnecessary) foot-pad north from the end of the lookout trail. The creek was dry except for a couple of pools of skanky looking water in rock holes, so any walking requires all water to be carried even in this wet year. We easily followed a fork of the creek that ran south walking in the creek bottom. Our plan was to follow the creek for a couple of kilometres and then walk up-slope to the east to intersect the park access road.

The first slope we scrambled up went easily enough, weaving through some lower broken cliff bands past more eroded caves until we landed on a rocky saddle between two undercut turrets on a ridge not shown on the map (due to scale). In the picture below you can see two overhanging turrets separated by a bushy looking saddle which is not at all bushy when you are there. The second picture below shows the southerly turret on the ridge.

Egress from this area required us descending back down and either contouring around the turrets to scramble up through breaks in the gorge rim to the east or, walking back down to the creek and taking a steep route up talus and slabs to the west. The western route looked better so that is what we did turning the west ridge around the north end, although I suspect other passes could be found. We had scraps of animal trails along the way.

This was a very nice ridge to walk along, quite open, about 8 metres wide with good views to either side (see below). As we walked the ridge widened gradually and we walked out of the bush to meet the highway and turned to the left (north) to walk back to the camping area.

Later that afternoon, I walked back along the ridge track we had followed the day before but this time instead of branching off to the north, I followed the ridge east until I could walk north again to the edge of the gorge and scramble down a broad slope to a lower saddle and, continuing north, I worked my way up through loose broken cliff bands until I arrived at the top of the rock pimple east of the three rocky turrets from our previous walk.

Judging by the size of the two cairns on this pimple, people are pretty stoked to get here, although it is easy, if loose. To the east, I could see the last remnants of the gorge and out onto the open plains but the view to the lookout ridge is blocked by the three rock turrets.

Isla Gorge is a small National Park, but, if you are passing by, there is plenty of scope for exploration, although official trails are limited to the one short walk to the lookout.