With apologies to George Orwell, while all ticks in Bill Wilkinson’s The Abels are equal, some are more equal than others.
photographers ROB SHAW and CRAIG SEARLE
One more tick, one more Abel down – but this one was so much more than that. This was an expedition years in the planning. This was a relatively small Abel with a very large logistical challenge. This was an unforgettable mountain adventure.
Mount Ida is far from the highest of Tasmania’s mountains, sitting in 90th position among those defined by Bill Wilkinson as being above 1,100 metres with a minimum 150m drop on all sides. But it sits alongside the likes of Barn Bluff, Pelion East, Frenchmans Cap and Adamsons Peak – among the state’s most recognisable mountains – and getting to the top of Mount Ida is one of the elite wilderness experiences in Tasmania.
The first obstacle is Australia’s deepest lake. Located on the untracked eastern shore of Lake St Clair, Mount Ida is only reached by a lengthy hike through the remotest section of the Walls of Jerusalem National Park, or by boat from Cynthia Bay.
Despite being so inaccessible, however, its distinctive conical shape and looming presence make the 1,241m peak a familiar foe for Tasmanian bushwalkers, not least those on the final day of the Overland Track, dreaming of non-dehydrated fare at the Lake St Clair visitor centre.
To anybody taking the daily ferry from the final Overland hut at Narcissus Bay, Mount Ida dominates the skyline, even though it is considerably smaller and more than 200m shorter than Mount Olympus on the opposite shore. Also visible from the public boat ramp in Cynthia Bay, Ida’s its sharp dolerite point forms a formidable outline and appears totally off limits without ropes, carabiners and bravado. As Wilkinson asserts, “It would not look out of place amongst much higher Himalayan peaks.”
I had seen the mountain regularly on our frequent jaunts into the Walls or Pine Valley, but getting to Mount Ida always seemed a journey too far – until my hiking mate Craig Searle made some modifications to the four-metre, 25hp tinny he uses to watch trout ignore his fishing line. With considerable enthusiasm, he announced that he had installed a hydrofoil on the leg of his outboard motor, enabling it to get on the plane more efficiently. I had no idea what any of that meant and even made him write it down for the sake of accuracy in this report, but he was pleased with himself, and knows understands such things, so I was happy to go along for the ride.
The consequence of this was that we set off from Launceston at 5am in possession of an agreeable weather forecast and optimistic expectations of having the boat in the water by 7.30am, walking by 8, on the summit by 11, back to the car by 3pm and sampling Cascade’s finest work in the Derwent Bridge Hotel soon after that.
To my surprise, we achieved each of those milestones – but only the lake crossing could be described as plain sailing.
The tinny performed admirably, to the delight of its proud captain. The 10km crossing took just 25 minutes; Captain Searle insisted I take a photograph of the speedometer when it touched 30kmh.
The next 5km would take a lot longer.
We disembarked at an idyllic sandy beach with plenty of signs of previous human habitation but no distinguishable track through the dense steep forest and the peak obscured from view. Wilkinson’s advises simply taking a compass bearing and sticking to it, whatever terrain, vegetation or undiscovered prehistoric creatures may be encountered along the route.
Initially, the cool temperate rain forest was enchanting; greener than a tree frog and showcased by morning sun twinkling through the thick canopy, the sight and scent of sassafras, myrtle and manfern cleansed the soul and flushing out trivial modern-day concerns.
This was genuine old-growth forest, untouched by such man-made vulgarities as chainsaws.
The joy was short-lived. As the gradient increased, technicalities like an inability to see the ground, countless fallen trees blocking every route, head-high clinging scrub and the various stages of decomposition making every branch keep you guessing how long it would take to snap somewhat diminished the natural appreciation.
The most formidable obstacle was presented by the sudden appearance of a cliff wall, encircling the lower slopes and appearing to prevent any sane upward advancement. Wilkinson’s passing reference – “sandstone cliffs in the forest may present an obstacle to progress” – was clearly a euphemism for “good luck getting over this sucker”.
We contoured around the base of the cliffs before eventually finding a narrow, moss-covered and very slippery gully. It presented the least likelihood of plunging to a hideously green end.
Obstacle overcome, there was just another half hour of will-sapping, bush-whacking before the haven of a ridgeline and discovery of life-affirming cairns and marker tape confirmed we were not the first humans to set foot on this spot. Finally emerging from the bush, the mountain’s impressive rocky cap stood dead ahead, towering above anyone foolhardy enough to take it on.
As with most Abels, the panorama justifies the punishment. Our summit sandwiches were devoured in the company of a surprisingly healthy population of inquisitive skinks and accompanied by views to both ends of Lake St Clair as we watched the ferry make its mid-morning pick-up of Overland trekkers. Above this was a jagged horizon featuring a who’s who of Tasmanian mountains. Apologies for any missed out but, according to PeakFinder, clockwise from south to north, were: King William I, Loddon Bluff, Rufus, Hugel, Olympus, Byron, Cuvier, Manfred, High Dome, Horizontal Hill, The Guardians, Gould, Walled Mountain, The Acropolis, Falling Mountain, Cathedral and Mountains of Jupiter.
Ida tested and rewarded us in equal measure. For much of the trip you are questioning the wisdom of either blundering through seemingly impenetrable forest or hanging on precariously to tiny handholds and indeed life itself on a sheer cliff face, but not when soaking up those summit views or enjoying an excellent Sri Lankan curry beside a warm fire at the Derwent Bridge Hotel four hours later.
Such a trek should not be tackled alone. A second set of eyes proved invaluable when hunting for track markers in thick forest or locating unseen footholds when descending the perilous cliffs. It would also be a shame not to be able to share such tales of heroic endeavour with like-minded adventurers.
Rob Shaw was born and raised in England where he trained and worked as a journalist. Coming to Australia in 2002 with his young family was supposed to be temporary, but Tasmania had other ideas. He has since spent his time working as a sports reporter, exploring our state’s wilderness and realising that he is staying here for the term of his natural life.