Clouds From Both Sides: Part 2

This was NOT expected. We’d gone to our tents early as the dark and cold seeped into our bones. Even in the dim light we could see that the fog was thickening. No stars, no heavenly lights of any sort, just a Conan Doyle-worthy fog. But as I began drifting off to sleep: the sound of rain. Surely not? My suddenly-awake brain got whirring. No, it wasn’t rain. Rather, the fog had become so thick and the temperature so low, that the moisture was condensing in the tree tops, and dropping off as the laden branches drooped. The spattering on my tent was just a credible simulation of rain.

 

I enjoy rain on a tent, up to a point. And it made sense that here in a rainforest, right next to a lake, there would be moisture. If not rain, then fog. But … but … but … I wanted to bargain with the weather gods. The forecast was for fine, clear weather. Now I glumly had to consider the prospect of spending three days inside a cloud. That would literally put a dampener on things! 

Buttongrass, cloud and south-west mountains

Despite these gloomy thoughts, the continuous plop of water on the tent, and the growing cold, I slept well. And as light slowly crept into our forest, birds calling from the treetops – crescent honeyeaters, thornbills, scrubtits and more – turned my gloom to gladness. Such a happy morning sound. I wriggled out of my sleeping bag, and stepped out into a fresh morning. Instinctively I looked up. What?! No fog! No cloud! And even the beginnings of blue sky above. 

 

Ecstatic, I reached back into my tent, grabbed my camera, and hurried down to the lake shore. And the decades peeled away. There, just as I remembered it, was that stunning view across Lake Judd to the steepling Eliza Plateau. I’d first seen this in photographs during my university studies, an illustration of a glacial headwall (the cliffs) and a deeply-gouged glacial lake (Lake Judd). Now, on this morning, I was actually in this scene, a latter-day witness to the actions of immense forces.

Campsite view of Lake Judd and the Eliza Plateau

Larry and Libby soon joined me, and I was finally able to share the wonder of this place. We all stood in awe for some time, watching as wisps of fog drifted across the lake; snapping more and more photos. Finally, and reluctantly, we left to get on with the mundane task of preparing breakfast. We had some walking to do, above the clouds, if they dared to return.

 

Our destination was vague. I simply told the others we should check out Schnells Ridge, a range of small mountains, or perhaps large hills, on the southern side of the Anne River valley. From our starting point, it was untracked. Larry, a keen user of GPS, and a fan of off-track walking, pointed out a potential way onto the range. On his map there was only a thin band of scrub to cross before we could start ascending the clearer buttongrass onto the range. We shrugged a “why not”, and set off across a boggy patch of buttongrass. 

 

At the creek, as expected, the scrub thickened, and we had to barge our way through some resistant banksia and bauera. Crossing the creek itself involved some minor acrobatics, at which I failed, resulting in a soaking wet left boot. After that, as scrub tends to do, we were pushed further right than the GPS said we should go. And then a sudden moment of mirth. There in front of us was a track: actually, the main Lake Judd Track down the Anne valley. We laughed at our unnecessary detour, re-examined our maps, and decided to climb the range further west.

 

Fifteen minutes later, we left the track at a higher point, where it bent closer to Schnells Ridge. From there our route went upwards, steeply, but through mostly easy scrub. As we climbed, we could see that the valley beneath still had plenty of fog, thicker in the west than near Lake Judd. Everywhere mountains stood tall above the fog, the latter mimicking the ice that would have filled these valleys 15 to 20,000 years ago. I had a sudden dizzy feeling as I considered that Tasmania’s Aboriginal people, the Palawa, were here among those vast fields of ice, and had lived here long before the ice arrived. 

 

Above the cloud on Schnells Ridge

The past work of glaciers on Schnells Ridge soon became evident. A steep ridge that stood across our climb was obviously a lateral moraine; the rocks and other debris pushed to the side by a glacier. As we reached the top of the moraine, the sky above us was a deep, almost-summer blue. There was hardly a breath of wind – the forecasters had got that right. It was a glorious day to be in this precious wilderness. 

Larry and Libby atop a lateral moraine

Together we surveyed the way ahead. It initially involved a descent into some scrubby-looking bush, followed by another climb. This yo-yoing went on for a time as we walked perpendicular to the path of the former glaciers. Finally, we saw ahead of us a ridge leading to a potentially good vantage point. It was up on another lateral moraine, above the aptly-named Moraine Tarn. We aimed for a lunch stop there.

On Schnells Ridge, looking towards Lake Judd and Eliza Plateau

As we climbed onto that ridge, we suddenly heard the budda budda of a helicopter. We initially thought it might be a search and rescue flight coming from the Anne Range. But as the chopper came into view, we saw it had different markings. It flew quite low over us, and the pilot gave us a friendly wave, then continued towards the south-west. We kept climbing along the scrubby ridge before finally reaching a great stopping point around the 900m mark. 

At our lunch-stop above Moraine Tarn

There we enjoyed breathtaking views over the tarn, and up to the impressive flanks of upper Schnells Ridge, nearly 200m above us. But just as we finished our lunch, the chopper returned. And this time it didn’t just fly low near us, it slowed, hovered, then landed on the ridge less than 100m from us. A man wearing hi-vis climbed out, grabbed a backpack from the cargo basket, and gave the pilot the thumbs up. The chopper lifted off, and the man walked towards us.

 

A surprise visitor at lunchtime

“Hi-Vis man” was a Parks and Wildlife Service employee, landing to check on our movements because they were about to start a planned burn nearby. The last thing they wanted was for some walkers to be caught up in a conflagration. We told him our intentions and gave him our Garmin Inreach contact details in case they needed to speak to us again. And then, a little reluctantly, we started descending from Schnells Ridge. If we’d had more daylight, and if the burn hadn’t been imminent, I suspect we’d have tried going higher up the ridge. There’s always a next time.

 

We took a different and quite steep route back towards Lake Judd, still off-track. We had some disconcerting moments as, despite the steep slope, the ground was sodden, and patches of slimy algal growth made the going very slippery. At one point that delivered me a sudden wet bottom and a slight loss of dignity: a small price to pay for being in such amazing country.

Descending towards the Anne River and Lake Judd

Back at the bridge over the Anne River, we found the helicopter and crew busy getting things ready for the burn. One of the Parks staff recognized me, and came over for a chat. It’s nearly 11 years since I retired from Parks, but I still know a few staff members, and I remembered him well. After catching up on personal stuff, I couldn’t help asking him how things were going in Tasmania’s premier land management and conservation agency. The answer was neither pleasing nor surprising: this government, like most governments, has little appreciation of natural values and conserving our precious natural environment, unless it can see ways to make dollars out of it. The Parks and Wildlife Service is chronically under-funded, under-staffed and under-appreciated. This political mismatch was just one of the reasons I retired early from the Service. Back then, when faced with bone-headed political decisions, we used a faux Latin motto to keep us focused on the main thing: Nil illegitimum carborundum. I left my former colleague with these words … (and I’ll leave it to you to translate!)

Firefighting helicopter bucketing water, Lake Judd

 

Back at our “peaceful” lake, we spent the next while watching and listening to the helicopter as it flew repeated missions to gather water from Lake Judd, using a bucket dangled beneath. After each collection, the chopper flew the short trip back to the burn site, dropping water along the track side. This was to prevent fire damaging that infrastructure.

 

Once their flights finished, the quiet returned to our lakeside camp; the silence a profound contrast. We sat watching the sun slide slowly west down the flank of the mountains, sipping soup while we solved the world’s problems. And then we fell silent, and let the wilderness quietly solve ours.

Nature is home, even if we live in cities. I’m a writer based in Tasmania, Australia. I love learning and writing about the natural world, from the smallest bugs to the broadest landscapes.
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Source: http://www.naturescribe.com/2026/05/clouds-from-both-sides-part-2.html