Where It All Began: 2003

On Tuesday August 13 2003, Doug, Kumo and I hiked into Monashee Lake  from the west intending to camp for three nights and spend two days bagging summits in the Pinnacles.  Monashee Lake is accessed off the South Fork FSR from Hway 6 to Vernon.  A good but steep hiking trail leads initially through old growth cedar forest and later through extensive avalanche runs to Monashee Lake, which lies roughly midway in the north south running Pinnacle Range (Doug says thinks the trail was way too steep and loose to be classified as "good". As far as trails go, he would call it "unpleasant").  We left the truck at 1.40 pm and arrived, soaked with sweat (it was a hot day), at the lake at 4.00 pm.  We set up camp close to the lake in beautiful alpine meadow,  unfortunately marred by a preponderance of fire pits. There were, however, fine views of The Pinnacles and the Okanogan Plateau.

Next morning, Sandy managed to get stung by a wasp while returning from her morning ablutions and had a severe allergic reaction characterized by redness, difficulty breathing and near loss of consciousness.  As soon as the allergic reaction became apparent, we attempted to hike out but Sandy collapsed and was unable to walk.  Luckily, after resting with her head and shoulders elevated the symptoms gradually abated and later that afternoon we were able to walk back out to the truck.  Coincidentally, we noticed a huge number of wasps around camp.  To prevent further (possibly fatal) wasp stings, Sandy walked out in long underwear, long pants, goretex jacket with hood up, and gloves.  Temperatures were in the high 20's.  

Here is Doug's account of the "Wasp Incident":

After a warm night we crawled out of the tent when the sun reached us around 8:00. Not long after, Sandy returned from her morning ablutions announcing she had been stung by a wasp. She had also been stung about 3 weeks earlier and had developed a large read welt in her calf that was still itchy. Within 10 minutes, she mentioned her allergies were bad this morning and she might even have some asthma. At this point a small voice in the back of my head said "I hope this isn't from the sting ...". I unobtrusively watched her as we began eating breakfast - she was starting to show signs of difficulty breathing, general distress, and unusual behavior. After she put down her uneaten breakfast and put her head in her hands, I dispensed with the subtleties and approached for a closer look. "Did you get a sunburn yesterday?" I asked hopefully, as her face and chest were becoming quite red. "No; get me my mirror", which I dutifully did. She was shocked at her obvious allergic reaction and declared "We've got to get out of here and get me to medical attention". 

 

A flurry of activity ensued; Sandra is the nurse, but I couldn't help but wonder if attempting the 4 hour jaunt to the nearest hospital was the best thing to do. But I think we both felt we had to do _something_ (in hindsight, physical exercise through wasp country when she was having trouble breathing, probably wasn't the best idea). I approached Sandra at the tent and it was immediately clear we weren't going anywhere - she was too weak to tie her boots and was in obvious distress. As a nurse she knew exactly what was going on - racing pulse, a red rash on face, chest, legs, arms, tightness in her chest, difficulty breathing - and knew that she was sinking into anaphylactic shock and that her prognosis was not good. As her world went black, she was amazingly calm, and started preparing me for her impending death.

 

At this point I started to have to really work at staying calm. I could see she was on the verge of unconsciousness and her lips were quite blue (even I know this means she's not getting enough oxygen). As she collapses on her side she shows me by feel where I am to make the tracheotomy cut after she passes out. She tells me it is a long shot as her constricted airway is only one of the life-threatening consequences of her out-of-control immune system. In my mind I'm remembering where the Swiss Army knife is (no time to sterilize), thinking of the piece of tent pole in the repair kit that will probably do the job ... but knowing what a mess I can make of a flank steak, I'm not looking forward to the procedure.

 

We get her into the tent on her back, with her head and shoulders slightly elevated. This helps a bit, and she never does lose consciousness. I measure her pulse at 48 (it was racing less than 10 minutes ago). I watch helplessly as the waves of histamine wrack her body. Her face and chest and eyes would go beet red, and then subside. In a flash her entire body was covered in goose bumps. She suffered through violent shakes. After 5 or 10 minutes of this it seemed likely that the worst was past and she was going to live. That was my cue to have a wee collapse of my own.

The cycle of histamine surge and decline went on in decreasing intensity waves for close to an hour, and at that point Sandy felt OK, but was quite wiped. When I then went outside, I realized that camp was literally swarming with wasps. This, of course, was not good, as another sting for Sandy would literally be lights-out.

 

Sandra rested in the tent until around 1:00 until she felt strong enough to attempt the walk out. We would pass through long distances of flowering plants in the meadow and avalanche paths, so as a precaution, Sandra dressed herself in multiple layers of polypro, fleece, and Gore-Tex, all topped off with loads of 100% DEET. We made it to the truck in 1:45, but Sandy was more than a wee bit hot, as it was another sunny and hot day. 

We visited the doctor on Thursday and now have two "Epipen"s in our possession, that are self injecting epinephrine (adrenaline) needles, which will counteract her allergic reaction should she be stung again. The doctor cringed upon hearing my description of my plans for an emergency tracheotomy - rather unlikely to have been helpful, even if I was adept at the procedure, but still worth trying.

 

I can only shake my head at what would have happened should Sandra had not managed to swat the wasp right after it stung, or had not being wearing long underwear, or even received two stings. It those cases, even a satellite phone would have been pretty useless (not that we had one) as the time from when we realized this was a very serious situation to when she would have stopped breathing would have been 5-10 minutes at the most (Sandy had never had such a reaction before). After such an unpleasant experience, it feels strange to feel lucky, but that's exactly how I feel.

Carpe Diem. This mortal coil. And all that stuff.

Things Seen in Hindsight

It’s a beautiful sunny day and Doug has gone out for an ocean paddle. I was all set to go but, realised that while the head was keen, the body was not. This latest anaphylactic episode has knocked me about a bit more than usual. It turns out, looking back through trip reports, this is the third instance of tick induced allergy I have had in the previous nine months, with each one worse than the last. The symptoms and signs are slightly different to the ones I get after wasp, bee or hornet stings and it is only in hindsight that I have been able to put the entire puzzle together. Despite having had sting allergies for 23 years, I did not realise that symptoms can be other than respiratory, and frequently include gastrointestinal symptoms (diarrhoea and vomiting), and even seizures.

Below is my diary of a tick allergy, extracted from our trip database:

15 November 2024:  We walked in and got Doug set up and then Sandy, after eating a couple of bites of the previous nights dinner, walked along to start trail work. I got incredibly dizzy and felt like I was going to faint. I've never had that like that before. I simply could not walk. I ended collapsed on the track, unable to find anywhere to get on a log out of the dirt as I was so sick. Vomited about 5 times and the other x 1. Lay on my side by my pack hoping for the dizziness to pass off. Eventually called Doug as I thought I should let him know. He was just finishing up and got packed up quick as he could and came along to meet me. I had begun walking out still very dizzy but holding on to trees to keep my balance, only some retching as I had emptied my stomach. I found a tick buried in my shoulder when I got home. It left a big red wheal. I went to bed when I got back.

20 November 2024:Climbed part way up route but feeling icky. Found a tick on myself and felt more icky so we walked out.

19 December 2024:  Got bit by a tick and felt very unwell. Took anti-histamine, felt like I was going to pass out so lay down for a while. I had been belaying Doug up the climbing route but he came down and he managed to remove the tick but it had bitten me. We left after that as I felt quite wobbly.

There you have it. In hindsight, it is recognisable as a clear tick allergy but at no point did I have the usual difficulty breathing I have experienced with insect sting allergies. I’m not sure how I am going to manage in the future. At least with insect stings, you feel the sting and can immediately take medication. Ticks are different and frequently only found later. But, I know that in future, I’ll be reaching for the epinephrine as soon as I feel even a little bit off. Ironically, I often take anti-histamine first hopeful that I can fend off a full blown reaction because I always think “If I take the epinephrine the whole day will be shot.” As if dying doesn’t ruin your entire day! My brain is so low on oxygen and blood during these events that I surprise myself with how daft my thinking is after the event.

Your One Wild and Precious Life

Tell me, what is it that you plan to do with your one wild and precious life? Mary Oliver

It might sound hyperbolic, but Doug saved my life yesterday. Within one minute of getting a tick bite, I collapsed into unconsciousness, had a seizure, and began vomiting while unconscious. All this happened when we were deep in the bush. I don’t remember too much. I felt odd when the tick bit, then within seconds, my visual field narrowed and I felt as if I was on a train rapidly withdrawing into a deep, dark tunnel. The world, what I could see of it, span around, and then I was down. It was all so fast I did not even recognise that I was having an anaphylactic reaction, something I am, unfortunately, no stranger to.

Doug, who believed himself to be holding his dying partner of over 40 years in his arms, was amazing. He administered my epi-pen, cleared my airway, put me in the recovery position all while talking to the emergency operator and conveying a GPS location of our position.

I was long-lined out. The second time in my life. The first was after Doug got his knee stuck in a crack on Bugaboo Spire in the Purcell Mountains. That was a fun long-line (apart from the stuck knee), whirling around a couple of hundred metres above the spectacular Bugaboo Range. This last time, not so much. I was barely conscious and throwing up.

This is not, of course, the end of the story. Doug was left alone in the bush with two backpacks of climbing gear, a tough walk out and having watched his soul mate disappear into the air. My friends, Margot and Lippy were wonderful. Margot picked me up from Woden Hospital when I was discharged. I was dirty and smelly and had vomited on myself. Lippy made us a dinner. They both welcomed me into their home and were gracious hosts. I can’t thank them enough.

Life is beautiful, unexpected, above all precarious. Hug the people you love, forgive those you can, seize the day and don’t ever, ever, ever let a single day pass that you don’t thank god or the creator or whatever mystical creature you believe in that you live, breathe and can experience this one precious and glorious life.

Another Budawang Punt: Webbs Crown

If you’ve done anything in the Budawangs besides the few most popular tracks, you’ve punted. I’ve had my own punts, like the time we tried to circuit the ridges around Jindelara Creek, or the Sneddens Pass circuit. In fact, unless you happen to be lucky enough to be following in the wake of a big group or a trail clearing party, punting is more likely than success. A month or so ago, while bicycling and hiking on the east side of Clyde Gorge I had got a glimpse of Webbs Crown: a small flat topped eminence surrounded on all sides by sandstone cliffs lying between two watercourses deep in Clyde Gorge. Similar in character to Hamlet Crown in the Ettrema Wilderness or Russels Needle above the Nattai River but unlike those two locations, I could find no trip or route reports anywhere. In fact, the only reference I could find was my own question on a bushwalking forum about Webbs Crown.

With the aid of satellite imagery and the topographic map, I had identified what appeared to be a route down through the cliffs on the west side of Clyde Gorge in the vicinity of Webbs Crown. If this route worked, we would only (only!) have to ascend and descend 100 to 120 metres in about half a kilometre to reach the base of Webbs Crown. From the base of the crown, we would circle the feature looking for a route to the top. Getting to the top was not guaranteed as, on the topographic maps and the imagery, no breaks are seen but sometimes the only way to know if something is possible is to try.

Budawang bush-wacking is notorious and, at times unpredictable. I’ve certainly had occasions where it wasn’t too bad, but more commonly there are few things worse or slower. It is not uncommon to proceed at a pace of under 500 metres an hour. We were a bit faster than this, but not all that much faster. A distance of about 1.5 kilometres on the map took two hours. And that doesn’t mention the soul and body destroying work of the bush-whacking.

I had hoped that the heath that grows on the sandstone slabs and shallow soil along the plateau might be less thick than other Budawang locations, but that was not the case. Sure, there were some patches of merely hip high vegetation but there were other locations where we made no progress at all. None. At these times, we had to retrace our path and look for a different route. Most common was bush which we could walk through but which was interminably slow and heavy work with fallen trees and branches elevated mid thigh above the actual ground surface which meant each step had to have a metre height. Given I’m only 1.58 metres tall, this was brutish work.

The pass, when we found it, was not a pass. We scrambled arduously down some distance but without an abseil rope we would not be going any lower and, of course, abseiling down is ridiculous when you have to exit the same way. Around 1:00 pm, after much thrashing, we had a quick lunch before trying to salvage all that bush-wacking by walking along sandstone slabs and cliffs that line Clyde Gorge. Although the cliffs are contiguous on the map, the slabs at the top of the cliffs are not. They are cut with small gorges and even on the slabs, thick brush grows and fallen trees have to be surmounted. But, we did get a good look at the west side of Webbs Crown (no way up on the west, south and even the north that we could see) and, remarkable as it sounds, we found a cairn. One single cairn marking a pass down between cliffs that gave access to Clyde Gorge.

I would like to know the story behind that cairn as the only information I have been able to uncover of travel in upper Clyde Gorge (apart from a few trips into the site of Rixons Gold Mine – all done before the 2019/2020 fires) is a few posts on Instagram about a trip from Bhundoo Hill to Batemans Bay through Clyde Gorge. It took this party almost five days before they were able to put packrafts into the Clyde River and paddle rather than walk.

This trip was, of course, a pure punt. We gave up before even reaching Webbs Crown. Had we been made of tougher stuff, we might have at least have tried to get down to the Clyde River and possibly up to the base of the cliffs. Realistically, however, we just didn’t have time. The cycle and bush-whack to the cairned pass took five hours return. The remainder of the trip, even if we did manage to find a route to the top would likely consume another seven hours minimum. When the possibility of success is so low, it’s not hard to opt for the punt.

Mount Cavalier

Here is another report from the vault.  The reason I am posting these old reports is because one day the bivouac site will disappear and my trip reports with it. All the photos in this report are courtesy of Bob.  

On the eighth day of our Dais Glacier ski camp, Bob, Doug and I set out to climb Mt. Cavalier from the Cavalier Halberdier col. The day dawned clear but very windy with some blowing snow. As the morning progressed, the wind began to die, and by 10:00 when we set off the wind was calm with occasional gusts to 40 km/hr at camp - by the time we summited, it was virtually dead calm and very warm.

This was our second attempt on Cavalier; the first attempt was on day 2, where we approached from the north, climbing the crevassed glacier to the Cavalier-Jester col and then attempting the East Ridge. We were stopped less than 100 vertical meters short of the summit by an exposed traverse and steep, exposed slope with not-so-stable winter snow conditions.

From camp (375925 92N/6, 2080 m) on the Dais Glacier, we skied south across the glacier and gained the glaciated west ridge of Cavalier. We ascended the ridge (short section of step kicking due to frozen snow) to about 2300 m and then left the ridgeline and skied up the center of the glacier and through the col to the SW of Cavalier (383900) to gain access to the south slopes of our objective.

The south face of the peak is a reasonable snow route that is probably 40-45 degrees at its steepest. Due to our late start and the very warm day (now that the wind was gone) we deemed the avalanche hazard on these slopes to be rather high by the time we reached them. After considerable diddling and skiing hither and tither, we decided on using a rock step to gain the lower angled ridge that separates the south and east faces of the peak. Bob easily led the 10 m of solid rock (slinging two horns along the way), and then we all kicked and wallowed easily to the summit (very wet snow with boot penetration from 30-100+ cm). We basked in the hot sun and rubber-necked at the views for well over an hour before begrudgingly returning to camp. After reversing the wallow, we rappelled the rock step and skied roped until past the bergshrund found just NW of the Cavalier-Halberdier col. After passing the 'shrund, we unroped and skied down the ridge in increasingly soft and wet snow.

From the Vault: Smith Dorrien Highway to Highway 40: The Long Way

From the vault of the Bivouac.com files.  Bivouac is run by my friend Robin Tivy and is worth subscribing to if you are into climbing mountains in North America, particularly Canada.

On the map, it seemed a really good idea. Start at Sawmill parking lot on the Smith Dorrien Highway and trek over to Highway 40 via unnamed (9,600 feet), Inflexible and Lawson. In practice, it's a very long trek and the rock is very loose. Nevertheless, we six and my much abused black Labrador, Kumo, left the Sawmill parking lot at 8.00 am on Saturday July 14 enroute to Highway 40. Almost immediately, we took the wrong trail and zigzagged through the forest for a time before deciding to head up a cut line to the open meadow. I knew, or thought I did, exactly where the trail descended from 9,600 having come down it just last spring after traversing the Mount Kent ridge. However, aluminium pots have taken their toll and nothing was recognisable. Maybe Kumo's idea of scent marking isn't so dumb after all. Soon enough we broke out of the trees to a wildflower dotted meadow. A slight 200 foot loss of elevation brought us to a small col, however, we still had a long way to go, so pressed on sans refreshment.

More meadow and talus slopes brought us to the summit of 9,600. There are good views over to James Walker, an infrequently climbed peak whose talus slope is every bit as loose as it looks. Just two years ago, Kumo had steadfastly refused to go an inch higher on the talus of James Walker and I had been forced to abandon him on a large boulder to pick up on my return. We stopped for a short break and added our names to the summit register before pressing on. On the map the slope down to the col to the west of Inflexible appears straightforward. However, after picking our way around numerous gendarmes we were forced to descend south east facing slopes to get around some intractable cliff bands. A short but loose climb brought us back up to the col below Inflexible. Another quick bite, and we were off again, this time easily climbing up sound slabs and talus to the summit of Inflexible. The summit register on Inflexible is a worthwhile read, mostly consisting of expletives against Alan Kane and his supposedly "straight forward connecting ridge to Mt. Lawson." Some went as far as to decry the honesty of all climbers!

We were undaunted however, and soon started off again for the final summit in the trio. In truth the connecting ridge to Lawson is not overly difficult. Coming from Inflexible there are a few short down climbs, and some stretches of hideously loose rubble. Conversely, there are also some nice solid slabs you can walk down. At one point we were forced to descend below the ridge to surmount a cliff band, and then strained back up dreadfully loose rubble in a two steps forward one step back fashion. Finally, we reached the last ridge to Mt Lawson and strolled to the summit. One last summit register to sign and we were off looking for the route down Mt. Lawson.

Unfortunately, we were a little to the north of the standard scramble route, on the wrong side of the snow gully. I'm not sure whether or not this made any difference as the entire face seems to be made up of precariously balanced boulders ready to hurtle down slope at the slightest provocation. There were definitely many "remote triggers" as boulders crashed down before we even approached them. Needless to say it was a trying descent at the end of a now 10 hour day. Eventually, we did reach the steep meadow at the base of the face. I had lost my watch on descent (a very old and battered but still functional Seiko dive watch, if you find it, please return it), there had been a minor hand injury from falling rock, and Kumo had whimpered like a poodle the entire way (or was that me?). There are some minor waterfalls and cliff bands to scramble around as you head down the drainage, some how they felt very tiresome as I now just wanted to plod. Once the drainage became too choked with vegetation to be passable we found an excellent flagged trail, but continuing the theme of the day we soon lost it and were forced to blunder haphazardly through the bush. Twelve long hours later we emerged on the Fortress ski area road and staggered back to the cars. The most positive comment I had from the others was "Well, it was a very different trip with lots of exploration."

Beginners Mind

Holy hell, it was windy today. I didn’t actually notice how windy until I got on my bike to ride up to the Mogo trails. I was barely moving along my street and a couple of times felt like the bike would be blown over. It’s always better in the forest, although lots of folk would be scared stiff to go into the forest on a windy day for fear of being hit by a fallen branch or tree. It does happen, but not frequently enough to justify a high degree of trepidation. The trails were riding well; which is actually a bit of a surprise after all the rain and now wind. I stopped a few times to heft off some big branches so it was a bit of a stop/start ride. Coming up the last hill, I got off to clear a few large branches from the track and my handlebars swung right around and my dropper post became permanently dropped again. So, there I was riding uphill again with my knees around my ears. I couldn’t remember how Doug had fixed it last time but luckily I was able to get him on the telephone and he told me how to do it. It’s bad enough riding like that on the flat paved bike trail but up a bush track is just uncomfortable.

I’ve been experimenting with less volume strength training in a very simple program. Three days a week, occasionally all three in a row but that is less than ideal. Two days strength, one day power. This is what that looks like:

• Day One: Split squats, overhead press, core, glutes, accessory work (biceps, triceps). Four sets of up to five reps where the weight goes up if I get all four sets of five reps.

• Day Two: Deadlifts, push-ups or bench press, core, glutes, accessory work (rows, biceps or triceps). Four sets of up to five reps where the weight goes up if I get all four sets of five reps.

• Day Three: Power cleans, jump squats, core, glutes, accessory work.

There is a warm up to this program, which is mostly the same: 3 rounds of each of 5 squat to sit on the ground and stand up, 5 pull-ups or rows, 5 push-ups.

Does it work? I’m less fatigued all the time, my climbing has improved a bit, and today I rode up the trails in my second lowest gear instead of grinding up in the granny gear all the way, so I think it is, although the neurotic part of my brain worries about “time under tension” being too low. Of course, like all training, it will work until it doesn’t and the key is to recognise when it is time to change the programme.

I’m not sure this low volume/load would work for everybody. I’ve been strength training for decades so the easy gains are so far in the rear view mirror that I don’t recognise them anymore. Anyone with a short training history could probably train more and make more gains, but the longer you have been training the harder the incremental gains get. When it comes to strength training, it’s great to be a beginner because you can put the weight up every week.

Googong Dam, London Bridge, Feagans Trig

On Monday, we drove down to Googong Reservior. This is part of the ACT’s drinking water supply but also has a lot of surrounding bush and some trails and fire-roads. From Drum Stick Point I paddled south as far as I could with the dam narrowing until it splits with the Queanbeyan River to the east and Burra Creek to the west. Taking the Burra Creek branch I was surprised to find that I was able to paddle to within 20 metres or so of the limestone feature known as London Bridge. I had a look around London Bridge and then paddled back north to a little cove where I could legally land. The north end of Googong Dam is (AI told me this) within a designated water control area where landing a boat is banned. I’m not sure what this achieves as the bush land around the dam is infested with goats that are shitting everywhere but I’m not a bureaucrat so magical thinking does not come naturally to me.

Anyway, the little cove I landed in, immediately south of the non-landing area, actually had a small gravel bank which made getting the boat up easy (easier than at London Bridge) and, walking through a bit of open forest to the east put me on an old road that runs north to Feagans Trig. The trig is on a grassy green knoll – goat shit grows good grass apparently – with good views south down the dam and to Bradleys Inlet to the east. I had some lunch sitting at the trig where there were lorikeets feeding on the goat shit grass.

Quite a pleasant outing mostly paddling but with a little bit of walking to keep limber. I paddle on flat water perhaps once or twice a year so I rather than finding it boring, I actually enjoy it. There are higher hills further east and south than Feagans Trig but they look heavily forested so there may not be any better views from the higher hills.

Hill Walking

They are only hills with a scant 200 metre rise above the valley floor, but still I wanted to walk up all of them. Proof, if you needed it yet again, that peak baggers never die, they just do smaller objectives. We were in the ACT for a few activities, including one of our very rare social events, and I wanted to do something on the day we drove up that minimised driving. Going up hills and minimising driving are two things I will always try to do!

Goorooyarroo Nature Reserve is just off the Federal Highway, very close to our afternoon birthday event and has hills and open forest and grassland. Goorooyarroo abuts Mulligans Flats and is enclosed by sturdy fencing to protect reintroduced mammals from predators. There are only a few places to enter and exit via big gates. We entered via Horse Park Drive which Google Maps mysteriously listed as being closed on Sundays. The Nature Reserve that is, not Horse Park Drive.

There are five hills you can walk up in a circuit, the rest of the terrain being quite flat. This is old farmland and there are mysterious fences everywhere that don’t keep anything in or out but just seem like relics. The topographic map only shows a fraction of the tracks. We also had the map from All Trails which was useful but you could also follow your nose as the terrain is simple and the forest open with lots of grassland.

The first hill is Gecko Hills, immediately after you enter the nature reserve, then you can walk north along a fence-line (reserve boundary) to Old Joe Hill (the tallest). We made a mistake here and walked directly west downhill from Old Joe Hill to the valley – my excuse is that it was very windy on top and hard to see the map – which meant we missed the shortest, least elevation gain, probably most pleasant (apart from the wind) route north from Old Joe Hill to Gooroo Hill. In the valley when I saw this, I walked north again to walk up Gooroo Hill while Doug, who does not share my obsession, walked back to the Floatel via Sammys Hill.

From Gooroo Hill, Sammys Hill is evident across the little valley and it is an easy walk to the top. Heading south I encountered numerous fence-lines and two echidnas before walking up the last hill, Black Stump Hill with the big stump easily visible from the car park. All of the high points have either a standard trig (Old Joe Hill) or three yellow posts, which must mark something, although I’m not sure what.

The Five Year Rains

It was a block of cheese and a packet of cumin that I found in the bottom of my shopping trolley unpaid for as I put the trolley back before leaving the store. When I went back through the self-checkout to paid for the two items, a couple of the Coles workers laughed as I told them what had happened. I could easily have walked out, but what you do when no-one is watching is who you are, both the good and the bad. Imagine if we really acted with true accountability for our actions. All the people talking about living on unceded land would have to find the rightful owner of their multi-million dollar property and give it back. It’s a fun thought experiment that will never happen because the mere mouthing of the “acknowledgement” platitude divests us of any need to actually make real restitution. Or, maybe we don’t really believe what we are saying.

I got up this morning and ran through the usual litany of what hurts today. Not because there is anything really wrong with me, but because I had three days of activities in a row. Paddling on Sunday, rock climbing on Monday and bouldering on Tuesday. We are in a rainy period, have been since 2020 really, which is also pretty funny if you think about it. A five year rainy period. With rain forecast every day but Sunday through Tuesday lunch time, I was keen to be out and about while I could. As it was, we had 24 mm of rain last night and showers off and on today. Another 30 mm forecast for tomorrow. Soon we’ll have to follow the expert advice to turn our taps on to prevent the dams spilling.

The most fun place I’ve ever been bouldering is the Happy Boulders near Bishop in southern California. There is a reason they are called the Happy Boulders because it is really hard not to have a lot of fun. Bowen, in north Queensland, also has fun bouldering, although Bowen is not a place you would expect to find good bouldering. Down here on the south coast we have a tremendous amount of extremely friable rock so you have to pick your locations carefully. There is lots and lots of sandstone to the north but not the Sydney (Hawkesbury) sandstone that is pretty strong. Our sandstone is friable and weak. We have solid granite along some of the beaches south of Moruya, but very crumbly granite scattered through the forest west of the beach side communities.

I used to try and boulder within walking distance of home, which was very limited. Now, I suck up the drive (takes about the same time as the walk but I’m driving not walking which is infinitely worse) to climb better boulders. South Nowra is getting a climbing gym, but I think it will be a long time until someone opens a gym further south. We have a climbing wall, but, we built it outside the house thinking it hardly ever rains and, as we’ve seen, in the years since, it’s done nothing but rain.

Kioloa to Meroo Head

It is over a month since the last Sunday paddle. Even with my training logs, I’m not sure what happened to all those Sundays. There were two injury Sundays, and, because I couldn’t paddle anyway, I got Doug to fix my kayak which was another Sunday or two where the kayak was out of commission. I do remember some shit weather and thinking I could put a paddle on but no-one would come anyway, but, finally, good weather on a Sunday although the frost on our car was thick in the morning.

By the time we got to Kioloa, however, the sun was warm enough, especially with no wind. There was a 10 to 15 knot southerly forecast so normally we would paddle south and come back north but we paddle south more than north and there were only three of us, all able to paddle into those conditions so we went north instead. It was a 20 kilometre day (21 actually). That, of course, is my winter standard. Enough to keep you reasonably paddle fit, but not so much that the trip becomes an endurance ordeal. As usual, we have a big summer paddle trip planned and there will be plenty of time spent in the boat in spring and early summer training for that. I do not need nor desire more over the winter.

If it’s just Doug and I we will leave from our home bay and bang out the 20 kilometres without stopping. That’s my preference. It takes less time and frees us up to do something else and we’ve always got something else to do. But R likes a lunch break, so we stopped on a beach for a while. It meant that, by the time we loaded and unloaded the kayaks, drove 45 minutes in each direction, spent 40 minutes on the beach, the day stretched out and there was not a lot of time left. But, life is full of compromise and I've always thought friends are a blessing who should be treated as such.  

Objects In Mirror May be Closer Than They Appear or Most Things Aren’t What They Seem

If you saw my video from a couple of days ago, you might think “Wow, what awesome conditions, that looks like so much fun.” What my video didn’t show was the painfully slow (and painful) 300 metre (vertical) descent from Gills Knob to the Guthega River. True, the shin bang was making it impossible to get into an athletic ski stance, and the Tour Cap Lites that I am skiing (a 25 year old ski with the dimensions and turning tendency of a 40 year old ski) would much rather go straight than turn. Additionally, with a name like Tour Cap Lite, you might guess that these skis don’t perform all that well in icy, hard conditions. Doug, by who is a lot better skier than me, had a reasonable descent, I descended the 300 metres by side-slipping 80%, turning 10% and walking the last 10%! Not elegant, awesome, or camera worthy.

The truth of life is that most things are not what they seem and everyone struggles with something although most of us hide our struggles from shame. Back in the day when I listened to every podcast that featured DJ, I, like probably most other listeners, was astonished and horrified to learn that DJ’s beloved wife and life partner died as a result of addiction in 2022. DJ seemed to have a charmed life, a strength coach, university professor, author, speaker, family man. I often felt jealous when he talked about his life and community as he had a group of local neighbours who came over to train in his home gym. I’m pretty good at training on my own – by necessity – but I would love to have a group of friends who got together to train. Not for me, I always thought.

And then there’s Twight, the hard-man alpine climber, whose words have always inspired me to try harder, be better, not quit, face my fears, and it turns out that Twight, the man with the will of steel has, like everyone else, his own struggles.

Simple truths which, at heart, we all know, but the glamorous life you see on line is probably not nearly so magical when honestly reported.

Icy Times: August Ski Touring

The bridge over the Munyang River is gone, pulled due to “dangerous conditions,” which, in Australia, could mean anything from toppled into the river to “might cause you to get a splinter in your arse if you sit down for a rest.” Strangely enough, and my conspiracy theorist tendencies may be coming out here, the Aquaduct Track, a well built vehicle road which climbs up to 1650 metres on Disappointment Ridge is not shown on any of the new topographic maps. This is, of course, what Tasmap does, leaves old trails off the new maps, an effective way to close areas to the public (usually under the guise of “environmental” or “cultural” protection) without officially closing those areas. Tyranny by stealth, you might say, if you were a conspiracy theorist like myself.

With skis on our packs, and heavy ski boots on, Doug and I stand looking down at the river for some time. Descending to cross the creek is nasty – the banks are steep and loose – and we’ll have to wade the river; there is no way we’ll be able to balance across those slippery rocks in hard soled alpine touring boots (AT). On the far side of the river, there is a dearth of snow so we’ll be walking for a couple of kilometres at least. Although I’ve done a lot of it, walking in AT boots isn’t a helluva lot of fun. And right now, I’m not sure what I was thinking: It’s our first ski day since 2019 and a return trip to Mount Porcupine is over 30 kilometres and probably 1,000 metres of elevation gain. It’s almost 10 am, and Mount Porcupine like all the Snowy Mountains is merely another rounded bump in a predominantly gentle range. The only reason I had picked Mount Porcupine as a day trip was because we had skied up all the other peaks in the area.

Sensibly we decide to turn west instead of east and ski up onto the broad and gentle ridges that run north to the Rolling Ground. We still have to walk the road up several switchbacks until patchy snow becomes continuous snow and we can skin easily up a broad and gentle ridge to the alpine terrain. This is the route we skied back in 2018 on our first ever Australian ski trip. I am paranoid about my feet. In 2018, I got terrible shin bang and had to take a half day’s rest in the middle of a four day trip and I haven’t had my ski boots on since 2019, the year we spent five months back in Canada. On a rocky knoll, I check my feet, lots of hot spots including on my shins but things seem OK, so we ski on further, touring along the flat ridge lines. The snow cover is excellent, the surface conditions are not. Firm would be a generous definition! We have lunch looking across the Guthega River to Mount Tate, which we had skied up on a different trip in 2018.

After lunch we decide to see if we can find any corn snow to ski. The first kilometre is hard pack and flat, mostly we are poling along trying to keep the skis moving but without a hot wax job (we had none left at home) and over heavily refrozen snow, the skis are sluggish. On a north east facing slope we get perhaps 100 or 150 (vertical) metres of corn snow turns, but already the light melt is starting to refreeze and skiing is a chattering experience. Second lunch and tea is taken sitting on the limb of a big gum tree, and then we skin back up to the ridge we ascended and ski back down to the road, eking out the strips of snow to ski as low as we can. I’ve got shin bang, of course, and walking down the road is painful so I’m limping along slowly behind Doug trying to weight my poles to take the weight off my feet.

The next day we drive up to Guthega Pondage. This is almost 300 metres higher than Guthega Power Station and the snow is continuous right away. Continuous but frozen solid. From the ski hill parking, we walk down the road to the Illawong trail. The snow is so hard our boots make barely an indent. Where the trail climbs out of the creek, we put our skis on and side-hill across the icy slope glad to have metal edges on the skis!

Along the river bank, the snow cover is good. Last time we did this we had to walk long sections. Across Illawong Bridge we start climbing the gentle slopes up to the height of land. We skied up all these peaks in 2018 which is a relief to me now or I would feel compelled to get to the top of some of them despite how much my feet hurt. My shins, however, feel like someone is hitting them with a hammer. I am trying to appreciate the weather – it’s sunny and not even very windy – and the environment, but as I ski along behind Doug, all I can think about is NOT thinking about how much each step hurts. It’s not possible though, the brain worries away at pain like a cow with cud.

Below Mount Anton, I sit on an exposed rock and examine my feet. Two blisters on each foot, and tender bumps on my shins. I tape everything up and we keep skiing up towards Mount Anderson and along a broad ridge. The snow is gun-metal hard and we do a couple of short descents without bothering to take the skins off. Skiing down to a saddle from Mount Anderson, with skins off, we catch a few turns of corn snow and smile at each other. But contouring below Mann Bluff and skinning up to Gills Knobs the snow is icy hard again. It’s a very strange feeling: white stuff, officially called snow, under your feet/skis, but the snow so hard that the skis seem to float above the surface. As we have lunch, we watch a snow boarder walking while his mate skis. The walker is easily as fast as the skier.

In 2018, we had a good corn snow descent from Tate East Ridge to the Guthega River. Not in 2025. The snow is ice hard and when I tighten my boots, the shin bang makes my eyes water. The 200 metre descent is easily one of the most painful, unrewarding and slow ski descents I’ve ever done. Doug patiently waits as I press my feet back every 100 metres or so to try and take the pressure off. Near the bottom, I click out of my skis and walk the last 20 metres down, stomping my boots on the ice to get a step in. We arrive exactly at the rickety metal bridge across the Guthega River. Skins and skis back on and the shuffle along the road to the car park.

Imagination, Climbing and Biking

Without imagination we would never get out the door and do anything, but it’s strange how often imagination fails to align with reality. In my dreams, it is always a sunny warm winters day at the crag and I’m crushing the routes, climbing easily with no fear at all. In reality, when you arrive at the crag, it’s cold, damp and overcast with a bitter wind blowing, and several seasons have rain have turned the climbs black with slippery lichen or more simply into cascading streams of water. You find yourself back at the old climbs you’ve done before only they feel much harder than they did a few years ago. Strangely, although everything feels a struggle with stiff limbs in the cold and cramped fingers, it’s still stupidly fun!

A quiet camp down a rough track for the night with a bright moon presaged by a glowing sunset was a good end to our first day. Next morning, we rode the mountain bikes along an old road across open plains where the vegetation is sparse because the soil is shallow over the large sandstone plateaus. Below the south ridge of the little peak we were climbing, we found a foot-pad, very unexpected, but welcome although the bush was not thick. Within 20 minutes we were on the little summit, the views mostly to the west from the short sandstone cliffs that surround the top.

Back down at the old road, we continued riding, dipping down a steep decline to cross a creek, a tributary of the main river that runs all the way to the ocean mere minutes from our own home. The road climbs again, and, where it crests, we left the bikes and hiked 100 metres (elevation gain) uphill through light timber to the location of the trig. For the first time I can remember, we didn’t find the trig – it must have completely burnt in the fires - but we did find a lunch spot on another sandstone slab looking out over the valley and the deep gorge eroded as the river runs out to the sea.

The next day, my muscles are stiff and sore, but I convince myself that another climbing day will be fun. The wall looks even blacker than the last time we were here, the moist air after an overnight shower making the holds greasy and slick. The climbs are good, but most definitely sand-bags, but we know this, having climbed here before. Despite easy access, reasonable parking, shelter from the westerlies and high quality routes this little crag sees little traffic. I think the average climber looks at the grades and thinks the climbs are too easy and dull, but, these short routes pack a punch and if you want a workout on steep and overhanging climbs with very few positive holds, you can get it here.

One weekend we were at this little crag when a gaggle of parents and children showed up along with two young and obviously hard-men (one was a woman so this is non-gendered) climbers. The role of the young climbers was to put up a couple of ropes for the kids to climb. The woman, in approach shoes, jumped on a grade 11 climb to put up the first rope. All went well to the first clip, and fell apart quickly afterwards when she became increasingly panicked until she finally pulled the top moves by laying on knees and belly to get the last clip. I can’t speak for the woman, but I felt a lot better after that. The kids, of course, couldn’t climb anything, but that didn’t stop the parents from telling five to eight year olds to “toe in” to that hold, or “match feet,” which virtually no child in that age group can either understand or do.

Probably they were having fun, or they might have been thinking “this isn’t how I imagined it.”