photographer ROB SHAW
Just two words are required to reduce my normally well-adjusted bushwalking colleagues to gibbering wrecks. The utterance of “Mount” followed immediately by “Tor” produces a Pavlovian response which sees the gibbering swiftly followed by sweating, hysteria and crazed ramblings. The foetal position is swiftly adopted along with vaguely-decipherable repetition of phrases such as “never again” and “don’t make me go back”.
The trigger for this distressing behaviour is an unassuming mountain, situated between the far more enjoyable propositions of Black Bluff and St Valentine’s Peak in Tasmania’s north-west. At 1,110 metres, Mount Tor only just achieves the definition of an Abel – the 158 Tasmanian peaks that are at least 1,100m high with have a minimum 150m drop on all sides.
Sometimes, the quietest of voices have the most to say. We have completed longer and steeper Abels – Western and Drys Bluffs at either end of the Great Western Tiers tick those respective boxes – and many substantially higher
Few, however, are as physically draining.
My regular hiking companions had already endured one aborted attempt – thwarted by a combination of impenetrable scrub and a wall of rock – which I was denied by a far less potent bout of Covid. Lured into a second assault, they were not optimistic. As we left the car just off Loongana Road, one companion suggested erecting a sign saying, “Mount Tor: abandon hope all ye who proceed.”
The hike can be divided into two halves, roughly equal in distance but vastly different in gradient, difficulty and ability to diminish the will to live.
The first half is quite lovely and makes use of an old 4WD track taking hikers to the base of the main climb. This section also involves wading across the Leven River and both Dempster and Tor Creeks, providing a spot of additional adventure as well as a welcome cool-down and drinking opportunity on the return leg.
However, the first half, according to my companions, merely lulls users into a false sense of security.
The turning point, in every meaning, is represented by a large cairn on the left of the track that marks the recognised starting point for the ascent. Here is where opinions vary on the optimal way ahead. In The Abels Volume 1, author Bill Wilkinson directs hikers to veer off the 4WD track and begin climbing, although warning, “Parties should make their way as best they can through the tangle of tea-tree, wattle and banksia,” and offering advice on how to avoid “a very extensive patch of thick and wiry bauera”.
Having taken this advice on their previous assault, only to subsequently encounter hell in floral form, my companions had been converted to an alternative route which involved remaining on the 4WD track for another hundred metres before making the left turn, engaging a low gear and beginning the ascent. Ultimately, it proved the successful option, but was not without adversity.
The mountain’s dominant vegetation means walking on – or to be more accurate, through – buttongrass, cutting grass, tea-tree or bauera. None offers an enjoyable experience. Buttongrass can be so thick that a hiker is left guessing whether a placed foot is about to descend 10cm or 100; cutting grass, which we were frequently compelled to hold onto, lives up to its name through any clothing short of a hazmat suit; dense copses of tea-tree give the impression of offering solid handholds only to snap when needed; while the tentacles of bauera bring to mind the pit monster in Return of the Jedi.
Rarely have gaiters been so necessary. In fact, for much of the day, neck-high gaiters would have been in order. Gardening gloves may have looked ridiculous but were a priceless accessory.
At one point, while leading the way through a particularly dense thicket of bauera and unable to extricate my feet from the clinging scrub, I said, “I’ll lie down face first, you walk over me.” My companions chuckled, unaware it had been a serious suggestion.
Another time, confronted by still more unforgiving bauera, I said, “This is no good, there’s no way through,” only to be asked, “Well, what’s the alternative?”
We persevered. The gradient eventually eased but the vegetation stubbornly refused to. Even on the more-exposed plateau near the summit, walking was hard. We were all exhausted, bent over and gasping for breath.
The sweet scent of boronia offered a welcome respite for senses in need of some distraction, and then the summit arrived at 1pm, three hours after we had left the 4WD track, more than four since leaving the car, and nearly eight after leaving home. The day was destined to end as it had begun – in darkness.
As is usually the case with an Abel, the panorama helped offset the pain. Black Bluff (1,340m), just a few kilometres to the south-east and 230m higher, played the Abel lead with commendable support roles from Mount Roland (1,234m) to the east, Cradle Mountain (1,545m) and Barn Bluff (1,559m) to the south, and St Valentines Peak (1,107m) filling the void to Bass Strait further north.
A similar timeframe awaited our return journey, although gravity made the descent marginally easier.
Recording the hike on the Strava app, I can report we completed 12.54km plus 819m in elevation. The duration of 2 hours 39 minutes only accounts for time moving, revealing how much pausing and bushwhacking was involved in what actually took eight hours. Having consulted three different accounts before tackling the hike, we concluded that none of them was sufficiently honest about the torrid nature of the task. Wilkinson even described it as “a delightful Abel”.
Reflecting on this, as well as the second day of his life lost to Mount Tor, one of my companions offered, “The only thing delightful about Mount Tor is finishing.”
Throw in the omnipresence of flies in plague proportions and it was enough to spark gibbering in even the sanest of bushwalkers.
Reliving the experience to our respective spouses, the shared reaction was, somewhat understandably, whether we had enjoyed it. Climbing Mount Tor? Probably not. Spending a day with like-minded friends, pushing our limits in the Tasmanian wilderness on a glorious summer’s day and returning to embellish the tale? Absolutely.
More in the ABELS series:
- Nescient Peak
- Black Bluff
- Mensa Moor
- Mount Ironstone
- Clumner Bluff
- Frenchmans Cap
- Drys Bluff
- Mount Murchison, Mount Dundas
- Mersey Crag and Turrana Bluff
- Clear Hill and Mount Wedge
- Parson and Clerk
- Mount Rogoona
After 13 years as a journalist in his native England, Rob Shaw moved to Tasmania with his young family in 2002. He has since continued to write about sport, covering two Olympic Games, three Commonwealth Games and many other major events, while also exploring the Tasmanian wilderness. His book, Shaw Things, is a compilation of some of his best newspaper columns. It was published by Forty South Publishing.
