Clouds From Both Sides: Part 1

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Clouds From Both Sides: Part 1

 

I’ve looked at clouds from both sides now
From up and down, and still somehow
It’s cloud illusions, I recall
I really don’t know clouds at all – Joni Mitchell

Buttongrass and lowering cloud

 

Cloud was the last thing on our minds. All the forecasts were favourable: clear, sunny, no precipitation. It was the dream of the retired bushwalker. A working day for others perhaps, but for three of us it was a forecast made for walking! 

 

The trip had been a long time coming. The so-called Summer of 2025/26 had basically been a no-show. As if the unfavourable weather hadn’t been enough, social busy-ness and companionly health issues had stymied most walks. My boots had largely remained un-muddied, though my spirit was straining at the leash. Autumn would be better, surely? 

 

The answer came in the form of some huge blocking high pressure systems. One lingered over the Tasman Sea from late April into May, bringing fine weather and record high temperatures to Tasmania. It was the summer we thought we’d missed. When another high came a week later, my leash finally snapped! Three of us hastily organised a trip, and got packing.

 

* * *

 

It’s Monday morning, and we’re driving west from Hobart, heading for the wilderness. The smiles on our faces are real, even if the wind in our hair is metaphorical. There’s little or no wind forecast.  Bushwalking in the Tasmanian Wilderness in May, in calm, sunny weather? Surely, it’s a dream? But then dreams are sometimes associated with sleeping on clouds. 

 

As we drive through New Norfolk, past Mount Field, and on towards Southwest National Park, we discover one of western Tasmania’s little meteorological secrets. High pressure, high humidity and no wind equals low cloud. As we descend towards Lake Pedder, the mountains are obscured by cloud. The queen of the south-west, Mount Anne, is nowhere to be seen; the valleys are fog-bound, and there’s no sign of the sun. Still, our hopes remain high: at least it’s not raining.

 

Three at the start of the Lake Judd Track

Neither Libby nor Larry has walked in this part of the south-west before, and my last trip to Lake Judd and the surrounding hills was many years ago. Since then, back in 2019, a huge fire wiped out a lot of the track, and severely impacted some of the park’s vegetation. Happily, the track has now been rebuilt, so as we wind our way around the buttongrass-clad hills, it feels like a totally new walk. 

On the track looking back to Lake Pedder

 

Other things are much as they’ve always been here. The silence is profound, broken only by the jip of crescent honey-eaters; the claxon call of currawongs; the crunch of boots on the distinctively white and pink quartzite of the track. And what’s that green bird that Libby points out fluttering low across the track? It’s a Ground Parrot (Pezoporus wallicus), blending in with the vegetation so well that I barely know where to aim my camera. These masters of camouflage feed and breed in the low-growing tussocks, and rarely move far from that territory. As we walk on, it keeps up its furtive low flight before landing and scuttling under a low bush to hide.

 

Spot the Ground Parrot (click to enlarge)

As we get into our stride, I’m finding the new track very amenable, with its mix of constructed steps and gravel on the slopes, and parallel planking on the flatter, wetter ground. But I’m also finding that the other two are easily outpacing me, at risk of disappearing into the mist that hangs low. Libby has been training for a long-distance run, and Larry, despite recovering from a cold, is simply fitter than me. But after we stop for a lunch break half-way to our destination, they kindly agree to match their pace to mine. 

Libby and Larry getting ahead of me

 

The new track continues to ease us towards the lake, but a couple of kilometres from our destination, the newness end. Suddenly we step back a couple of decades, back to when the names Judd and mud were closely associated. We slop through some good old-fashioned sludge; brush through stubborn banksia bushes; stumble over slippery tree roots; stretch towards mud-covered rocks, often missing them. Eventually we emerge from this section, and find more boardwalk. This leads us to a track junction … and a difficult memory for me, which I share with the others. 

 

In my 30s I’d come here with a large group. We’d split into two parties on the way to Mount Sarah Jane, and one walker had found herself behind the lead group, but ahead of the following bunch. She turned left, towards Lake Judd, instead of right towards Sarah Jane. When we realised what had happened, her brother and I went back to Lake Judd to search for her.

Your blogger (not lost) in a rainforest - photo by Libby

We found her at the lake, and she was quite distraught. After giving her sympathy and snacks, we quickly headed off to rejoin the others, who were now an hour or two ahead of us. In our rush, we ourselves took a wrong turn, and ended up hopelessly off track and scrub bound in some of the area’s notoriously dense vegetation. For more than 3 hours we bush-bashed steeply uphill through unrelenting scrub, finally emerging – utterly exhausted – as darkness fell. On the dodgiest of slopes, the three of us squeezed into a 2-person tent and tried to sleep. But our trials weren’t over yet. A few hours before dawn a strong cold front smashed into us, almost tearing our tent down. We hurriedly packed up by torchlight, and stumbled uphill in the dark wind and rain, until we at last found the rest of our group. That uphill slog remains one of the worst experiences of my long walking career. Error compounding error, meets south-west scrub and wild weather.

 

But the past is the past. Today we intend to take that left turn towards Lake Judd. I tell the others the track will become rooty once we enter rainforest, which it duly does. It’s only just gone 3pm, but it’s so dark in the forest that it feels as though someone has turned out the lights. Pink climbing heath shine bright in the gloom.

Climbing Heath in the rainforest

There’s a final sting in the tail: a steep and rooty climb through sodden forest. It feels like a mini version of Moss Ridge on the way into Federation Peak. As we scramble upwards, Larry and Libby are breezily discussing the mindset of endurance athletes, and how they always manage to find that extra 10%. Me? I’m all out of percentages, struggling for breath while muttering under it “Where’s the bl**dy campsite?”

 

Our disparate mindsets soon reunite as we start to glimpse water through the trees. Libby momentarily mistakes it for more cloud, but the mini ripples on the otherwise still lake give it away. We dump our packs, then find some suitable tent-sites beneath the trees, before I suggest we check out the view from the water’s edge. I’ve told the others that it’s one of the most stunning views from any campsite in the state. The huge Eliza Plateau rises abruptly above the far shore of the large and stunning lake. But from the shore we see none of this. Cloud has settled low over the lake. It’s beautiful in its misty, tranquil way, but surely the others must think I’ve oversold it. 

 

Only time will tell, if the clouds decide to cooperate. Meanwhile aesthetic matters give way to practicality. We set our tents up, and get our food prep underway. It’s been a good day, a promising start to our walk. More than that: it’s simply wonderful to be out here, clouds or not.