Tasmanian Nature Writing/ Creative Writing

[mjdalessa]

After reading whynotwalk's Lake Rhona Reflections post, I thought it'd be nice to have a thread where we can share and discuss such things. I don't know if it already exists (yes, I tried to search) or if this is the appropriate forum, but here goes.

Heres some of mine (I'm most proud of part 7) and please comment!

A Secular Temple;

Part 1: Sama
Sama is no secret among bushwalkers, except most Hobartians are oblivious to its presence. Perched on a rocky slope on Mount Wellington, the incline drops off dramatically, allowing the landscape to unfold.

Since I was shown this place three or so years ago, I have returned perhaps twelve times. There a few places where I can truly unwind. I love sitting on the rocks above the hut, watching the sun set on Collin’s Bonnet. The city is only just below, yet I’m isolated. I can be there within half an hour of home.

My experiences with Sama are like being reacquainted with an old friend. I begin a longing when I have failed to visit in a few months, and promise I’ll try and visit soon. This has the nicest setting of any I’ve seen in Tasmania. The atmosphere is simply amazing, particularly how the light plays on the rocks around sunrise and sunset.

It’s my spiritual retreat, where I can rethink and reacquaint with the quintessence. I say to myself; “I acknowledge the mystery who loves me.” It’s like my replacement to the ‘our father’, more direct and straight to the point.

I hope Sama stays the same for the generations to come.

Part 2: St. Patricks Head
St. Patricks Head, named after the saint that requires no introduction, is the gem of the east coast. The state’s best short walk in my opinion. If you haven’t been, you own this often overlooked rugged little mountain a visit.

It has not one boring moment, and without wilderness weather. A mere few kilometres away, yet a world away. Idyllic. That describes it in one word. A rocky top from which you can view half the eastern coastline, serene, like no other coastal short walk. The scramble up the ledges at the top is a nice feature, quite rare on such a short walk. The ledge after the ladder section, before you scramble up, has to be one of the nicest and most tranquil places to relax I have encountered. I chose to enjoy the scenery from here rather than the summit it is so stunning.

I love this place, and it will be a must for each east coast trip in the future. God stopped here for a rest after creating the world in seven days. Under two hours return, yet it beckons you to return. It is so still on the apex of St. Paddy’s Head.

Part 3: South Wellington
Another of my favourites is South Wellington. It’s so close to home, which makes visits easy. But it’s the rugged landscape that makes me love it. The garden of dolerite boulders, scattered amongst mountain rocket and pineapple grass. On two of my four visits I have encountered my ideal conditions; pockets of mist, obscuring my life below on and off and occasionally the big white tower adorning/ defacing the crest of the mountain.

I love swirling mist; the landscape id constantly changing, like my thoughts. I feel acquainted. Its almost symbolic of one of nature’s most fickle creations; the human mind.

All this is reflected in the frequent puddles, which top off the landscape. It’s like going for a walk in the garden, but a far more spiritual place. I feel blessed that I have such a place within an impulses reach of home.

Unusually, I think it is good to be impulsive and irrational. Passion creates flourishing society, irrationality shows we’re alive. It makes me feel free of the institutionalising cycle, that the development of modern society kindly created for us.

Part 4: The Acropolis
I’ll never forget that day, that day the Acropolis showed his face from beneath the mist. I emerged upon the plateau, and there was little to be seen. But then I saw his face, sprinkled with something that appeared to be snow. We skirted the ramparts, and as we came around, stopped to rest upon a large slab. Du Cane Gap was close at hand, along with Falling Mountain.

The sky had opened up, just to reveal the quintessential splendour. But not for long, the thick fog returned, masking the summit, to deny us any views! It was then we discovered the truth about the snow. Not snow, but rather treacherous ice, embracing each more awkward scramble. We earned the summit this time, with next to no hand holds and severe injury waiting to show his hand.

Quite beautifully though, the various flowering plants were also overtaken by frost and ice. What a sight they were, adorned in white flecks. Even some flowers had fallen victim, making for an unusual sight.

It made me nostalgic, of that spring when I lived in the outskirts of Cleveland. It was spring, and the tulips were in full bloom. But a sudden blizzard engulfed them in two feet of snow. It was quite a sight, that spring, six springs ago. I still remember it with remarkable clarity, and similar aesthetic ponderings as when I sat on the Acropolis’s bulky ramparts.

Part 5: Lake Elysia
The Labyrinth in the fog is a mystical thing. The sheer precipes of surrounding mountains suddenly appear in front of your eyes, and the mist enchants the still waters. Lake Elysia is one of these such places. Rimmed in ancient fagus, and dropping away steeply from its banks to Pine Valley, several hundred metres below.

I love this place, perhaps one day I will return to camp at a deserted tarn and watch the light change, as days pass by.

This is one thing I love about the outdoors. No appointments are pending, no one is nagging. Time may be ‘of the essence’ down there, but it isn’t up here. Time is insignificant, daunted by the sheer forces and aesthetic display of natures capacity.

When in a place such as this you are not protected by the institution that you grew up in. I feel faced with the daunting idea that I’m insignificant. It is in such a situation where I feel in touch with god, if I ever did. Gazing into one of these such pools, many thoughts come to mind, questions I, and you, will probably never answer.

There are some things you can’t feel when you visit your building each Sunday. The wilderness breaches the gap, and forms my own kind of secular temple.

Part 6: The Parthenon ascent solo: This was perhaps my favourite ascent so far, for several reasons.
It was on a little used track.
Low hanging cloud swirled all around me, creating very low visibility. (Why was this good you might ask?)
Thirdly, I did it alone and it is a very attractive mountain.
The Parthenon sits on the rim of a large plateau, perhaps the most beautiful thing in our state. This plateau is known as the labyrinth, for its maze of lakes and small rocky knolls. It is extremely sensitive, with many rare plants. Best of all, this is rimed in by the sheer dolerite cliffs of the surrounding mountains.

So the Parthenon sits on the edge of this plateau, as you come up out of Pine Valley. It has a commanding view of the whole area from atop its sheer precipice. Not that I saw this of course, due to the above mentioned fog. The track is great; it skirts around the base of the cliff line with the valley steeply below you. You gradually get onto the ridge top, with short scrambles.

There was something strangely satisfying and transcendent about my predicament, looking into the foggy abyss below. Water was running off my rain jacket from the moisture in air, but this spot is strangely comforting. Maybe they should have named it ‘Philosopher’s rest, or something of the like. That day, high above Pine valley, I felt real serenity and bliss, unaware of my surroundings, pondering the big questions.

The Parthenon; the temple of transcendence and quintessence.

Part 7: ‘Therapeutic Pool’ Pine Valley: Perhaps Tasmania’s most beautiful forest is that in Pine Valley; eroded by a single stream, Cephissus Creek. Here I found something, that far surpasses my years and depth of understanding, beneath that shady canopy. The myrtles, the pines, covered in thrice my age’s worth of moss embrace me, and here by the bubbling stream, I found something. A secular temple, a spirituality that has something over conventional religion.

The remaining wild places bring me closer than a church ever did. My secular temple is somehow a replacement for religion, somewhere quintessential, where dreams and reality are synonymous. The hours drift by with no sense of this thing called ‘time’, it is irrevelent. The perfect place to ponder and reflect; I almost feel like a sage of the China of old. I can truly develop my mental self, without interruption.

It was down by Cephissus Creek, among the moss beneath the towering canopy, where I found one of these such places. Down by the bubbling stream, where the gnarled branches over hang, I sat alone on the moss. True peace and bliss swirled around me, and when nightfall came, I did something quite unusual.

It was only a couple of days until winter set in, but it was freezing already. About three or four degrees Celsius if my memory, which is a fickle thing I might add, tells me true. I strolled out of Pine Valley Hut in shorts and tee-shirt, arms intersected across my chest. A slight hint of torch light showed the glimmer of the water, the blackness immersing the rest of the rainforest. I ripped off my shirt and approached the water, standing on the thick, cold and soft moss. On impulse, I jumped into the water. It was above head height, and the shock of the cold woke me up like never before. I quickly scrambled back up the mossy bank and gasped for breath.

It was only while I stood gasping on the bank that I realised I hadn’t dunked my head. So I did the most impulsive, perhaps stupid thing I have ever done. I jumped back in and immersed myself fully. It was only then I was fully satisfied, while the cold was nearly killing me. But when I once again stood on the mossy bank, it felt like summer time. Bliss; a closeness to the quintessence that I’d never felt, that is what I found in the rainforest.

I feel somehow connected to that little pool in bubbling Cephissus Creek. The quintessence touched me here, and I somehow became reacquainted with god.

Part 8 Thark Ridge:

It was a nice sunny day so we decided to go on a little mountain expedition; up Thark Ridge, somewhere which evaded me on my only previous attempt. We could not find the track/ route because of fog on this occasion, so chose to do an organ pipes circuit instead, up the climbers track and across the base, then down and back up past Kara and Retreat.

This time, all looked clear on the drive in, but we were surprised by a consistent dumping (remnants of larger snowfalls from the previous week) around Big Bend. As we began walked, we quickly started walking through around three quarters of a foot of hard compacted snow. In between this, plants were sticking up and the landscape was littered by frozen pools, iced with some very interesting patterns.

On one, we even saw tadpoles swimming beneath the ice. In places, the track was extremely muddy, so we walked on snow instead. Progress was slow, but the atmosphere and feeling the snow and ice created made up for it tenfold.

This was my favourite mountain experience to date. It was such a pleasant surprise to trudge through the snow.

Thanks for reading, and post yours!

[Drifting]

You could always start a Tassie Writer's Forum. There's a lot of literary types here. Forum motion does free ones.

[mjdalessa]

Not a bad idea, I'll see if this kicks off first though.

[whynotwalk]

Hey mjdalessa - thanks for posting on a topic dear to me! And thanks for being brave enough to put your words out there for us to read.

I've been nudging forum members about such things over the years - with varying but often low-key responses. And that's okay, I understand that writing, and reading, are not always central to bushwalkers (or not the ones I walk with)

On the other hand I'm adamant that SOME of us need to put our love of these places into words. I've argued the case in various places. See http://auntyscuttle.blogspot.com/2010/01/mere-words-can-nature-writing-make.html and http://auntyscuttle.blogspot.com/2010/01/nature-writing-personal-primer.html

The pieces you've posted have the strength of being from the heart, and very personal. It is obvious you love and value these places. I think your writing connects most strongly when you let the details of the places speak for themselves (eg the light playing on the rocks in the Sama piece, or the water running off your jacket in the Parthenon piece.) These evoke place more than a string of adjectives can. As Creative Writing 101 puts it "show don't tell" - something I need to constantly re-learn.

I for one would be happy to read more. I'd highly recommend starting a blog, if you haven't already. I think you'd find it a good way to reach an audience and to further develop your writing. That plus lots of reading, and getting out into places that will inspire you to keep writing. Do keep it up!

cheers

Peter

[Swifty]

Ok Marcus, I'll bite!

Maybe not what i expected, but....here it is! It is based around the Anne circuit I did in 1982 with three mates ...thus explaining the campfire, which was permitted in those days...

Incipit:

The wind howls. I look back down the mountain. The fleeting clouds momentarily shred asunder to reveal Lake Judd, beset by the angry gale. Foam crested waves scour the surface in fierce lines, eucalypts bend and sway. The clouds close in again, and the world becomes small. I push on up toward the shoulder of Mt Sarah Jane, through the heath, my walking companions spread out ahead and behind. Each trudging through the sleet, each bearing his own burden.

And what is your burden this day?

The ground levels off. Between sudden assaults of stinging snow we can now see the lakes ahead. The wind is behind, giving some reprieve. Lightning Ridge appears like the monstrous contorted spine of some ancient dragon, receding to the dark brooding hint of Mount Lot, cloud-wrapped in the distance. The groaning wind gives voice to this, daring us to proceed. The snow has already begun to settle, dirty grey mats being consumed by the mud.

Pure it falls from the heavens, to be defiled by the banal earth.

Beside Lake Picone, we set up camp. Canvas flaps and is ripped from chill-numbed fingers, pegs refuse to lodge in the rocky ground. Curses fly, but soon all is ready. Then mugs of sweetened tea warm us, laughter, and companionship rises like the warm glow from the campfire. As if we have achieved something notable.

There is more than one truth. Or none at all. It frightens.

Dawn breaks clear and warm. Already the snow has melted, no vestige of yesterday’s storm remains. The rising sun catches the top of Lots Wife, in which place we find ourselves within a few hours. The elusive gully hiding on the far side leads us to the top after a brief battle with the scoparia. After consulting map and compass, and identifying each peak, we each lapse into silent contemplation. Some unwritten tryst between us commands this silence. As though we all know why we came here.

We passed buckminsterfullerene through the double slit. It can also be a wave.

Now we are pack-lowering in the Slot. It passes easily. The day is hot and breathless. Countless vertical columns of dolerite are shown in the face of Mt Anne. Amazing!

I know why those columns are there. I know how they formed. And when. I even know what they are made of. I can explain it. It makes them no less impressive. It detracts from them nothing.

We move on to the hut on Mt Eliza. There are other people there also. We swap banter and enjoy each others’ company.

We know what they are made of. We know how they were formed. We can even explain how they behave. It makes them no less impressive. It detracts from them nothing. Mystery is a sham.

Cheers
Swifty

[whynotwalk]

Beside Lake Picone, we set up camp. Canvas flaps and is ripped from chill-numbed fingers, pegs refuse to lodge in the rocky ground. Curses fly, but soon all is ready. Then mugs of sweetened tea warm us, laughter, and companionship rises like the warm glow from the campfire. As if we have achieved something notable.

That's a lovely paragraph Swifty! You've nailed the feelings evoked by walking, and 1980s walking in particular. Thanks for sharing,

cheers

Peter

[mjdalessa]

I loved the first paragraph swifty, I could almost taste the bite of the weather!

Heres one of mine from the other day;

I glance as we approach, at the broad escarpment, not a patch of snow in sight. Yet as we round big bend, one of the left tires cuts through the edge of the largest dumping in a while. I wonder what old friend sama looks like, adorned with a garnish of snow.

Not another is there as we park. A large sheet of blue creates this brillant lustre effect upon the snow, glinting and meeting my eyes. The heavy, compacted snow stretches as far as the eye can see, only broken by pinneapple grass, swirling pools of ice and the occaisional chunk of rugged dolerite.

As we advance, mist rolls down the valley, to dissapoint the throngs of tourists in that paralell dimension across dead island. I sat below Thark Ridge, surrounded by the moodiest landscape I can remember. A sheet of mist, with obvious rays biting through, just catching the reflective surface of the snow. Almost like light from the heavens, an epitomy of the quintessence. Sleet begins to swipe my face, but caught up in the moment, I don't mind.

I step through this glorious frozen puddle, filled with large curves and dotted with bubbles. Tadpoles swim underneath, and a sadness of the guilty kind overcomes me. I had destroyed something, a true expression of beauty, that wasn't mine to take away.

It was only short, but my most pleasent excursion in a long time; I won't forgot those rays, penetrating through the mist, for a long time.

I don't like it so much, but tell me what you think!

[tas-man]

I'll chip in with one of my poems inspired by a bushwalking trip of which strong memories remain to this day.

WARRAZAMBIL CREEK
June 1970

Mountains
morning
crystal dawning,
frosty fields -
and people snoring.

Tents sag,
dew soaked,
dripping,
glistening in the sunlight.

Quiet?
silent?
nature's vibrant!
listen . . . .
Dogs bark, warning . . .

[Swifty]

Thanks for that one Ian. I've not been to Warrazambil, so sorry I don't know what the dogs refer to!
When I was young, I used to write up all my overnight bushwalks in notebooks. I still have them, but not on hand at the moment (back in Perth). Reading back over them, the impressions were much more impressive the younger I was (first one written at age 14). Alas, worldliness and cynicism become stronger as we grow older, we lose our innocence i guess. But I am so glad I made those notes when I did. I will need to refer to them before I post another contribution, I think!
I would guess that in my case at least - when we go into the wilderness - it's just a mirror of ourselves that we see, undiluted by our normal "city" (or other) lives. Very deep reflections are possible. The wilderness itself, of course, cannot speak. Big topic - perhaps more later! Cheers!

[whynotwalk]

Misty web: Pelion Plains

Hi all - I managed to take part in a nature writing workshop at Mt Field last Sunday. Very inspiring indeed. A few learnings are contained in my latest blog post.

http://auntyscuttle.blogspot.com/2011/07/on-river-of-words.html

cheers

Peter