Monthly Archives: February 2015

TG #29

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In Issue Twenty Nine:

Eldon Range  + Save Cliefden Caves!  + Central Asia + Wooden Boat Festival

After too many cold days, summer seems to finally be here. The waterfront in Hobart has been full of good cheer and festive crowds for Regatta Day and the Australian Wooden Boat Festival. We’ve had airplane stunt pilots in the skies overhead, fireworks over the water, and a carnival at the Regatta grounds. There are tall historical ships, navy boats, Antarctic research vessels, small kayaks, cruising ships, and boats of all description. At the festival, there have been thousands of people, carousels, model boat exhibits, musicians performances, food vendors of all description, and abundant sunshine.

In this issue we’ve got a great account of a trip traversing the remote Eldon Range. Ben Armstrong recalls just how arduous their peak bagging adventure was, and reminds us why so few bushwalkers make it to these rugged mountains.

We check in with the cavers of New South Wales and the efforts to protect the geoheritage and underground wilderness of Cliefden Caves from a planned dam. Like the dam projects of Lake Pedder and the Franklin River, this proposal would irrevocably destroy some of the continent’s most important caves.

And then it’s even farther north to the “-Stans”. With maps generated by the Portable Atlas project, we’ve set up a simple geography quiz on the countries of Central Asia. See if you can answer these questions on countries that aren’t well known in Australia — good luck!

And finally, we check in the the Australian Wooden Boat Festival’s Media Room and share some of the fantastic photos they’ve got of the recent events at the waterfront. We hope you enjoy these articles as much as we do!

All the best,

The Editor

 

 

 

 

 

Images from the Wooden Boat Festival

The waterfront here in Hobart has been full of people enjoying the sunshine and the amazing collection of wooden boats in the harbour. Special thanks to the Media Room Team and photographers at the Festival for letting us share their wonderful images and providing us with some text about the event. We’ll see you there in 2017!


From the Media Room:
The biennial MyState Australian Wooden Boat Festival was held over four days from 6  to 9 February 2015 in Hobart. The MyState Australian Wooden Boat Festival now ranks as one of the biggest and best maritime celebrations in the world. In 2013 the festival displayed over 550 boats and attracted over 200,000 visitors.

“Early Tasmanian history is fundamentally linked to wooden boats and we thought it was time to take a look at their importance to our common heritage,” General Manager Paul Cullen said.   “Boats have been built here from the earliest times.  Indeed, the first Tasmanian Aboriginal people built several different types of boat for fishing, hunting and travelling to the offshore islands.   The first European explorers discovered the superb ship-building qualities of Huon pine, celery-top pine and other special timbers and of course the size of the resource was enormous. Shipwrights supplied the fledgling settlement with wooden boats for trading, passenger traffic and exploration.”

 

 

Five Questions – Central Asia

What better way to learn about the vast and important countries of Central Asia neighbours than through maps?

Here’s a geography challenge for you…

  1. Which is the ninth largest country in the world, spanning 2.7 million kilometres square, and home to the Baykonur Cosmodrome spaceport?
  2.  In which country is Lake Ysyk-Kol, the second largest salt  lake in the world and site of 2500 years of archeological history?
  3. Of which country is Ashgabat the capital?
  4. Where is the ancient city of Samarkand, in which one of the Muslim world’s oldest astronomical observatories was located in the 1400s?
  5. Which Central Asian country has a high point of 7495 metres at Ismoil Somoni – once known as Communism Peak?

Answers below!

 

 


Maps were sourced from From the Free, Open Source Portable Atlas Project:

 

 


The Answers:

  1. Kazakhstan – this spaceport is the only launchpad currently sending people to the international Space Station
  2. Kyrgyzstan – the crossroads city at this lake may have been the starting point of the Great Plague epidemic
  3. Turkmenistan – also home to the largest indoor Ferris wheel on Earth
  4. Uzbekistan – this was a great center of learning and scientific study
  5. Tajikistan – it was first climbed in 1933

The Fate of the Cliefden Caves

We love caves over here at Tasmanian Geographic, and while we appreciate the value of hydroelectricity and irrigation, we also believe that caves are some of the most important geographical treasures in Australia. Tasmania itself has had a productive political discussion – at a national scale- about the impacts of damming. That discussion is still remembered, and can be used to inform a debate about the fate of the Cliefden Caves in New South Wales.

To that end, we’re republishing material and contributed photos from the Save Cliefden Cave initiative to help them spread the word about their campaign.

You can learn about the latest developments, sign the petition, and stay in touch via http://www.savecliefdencaves.org.au/

 

Australia’s caves are under threat!
Cliefden Caves are an amazing underground wonderland of cave systems unique to Australia, formed over millions of years. They have been a destination for cavers and scientists across the country for decades. The caves and nationally significant fossil sites will be flooded and lost forever if the NSW State government’s ill-advised proposal to build a dam on the Belubula River goes ahead.

The Cliefden Caves Geoheritage Site is unique, containing internationally significant Ordovician fossils, limestone caves, a warm spring, an important habitat for threatened bat species and historically significant sites, including the first discovered limestone in inland Australia. It is ranked in the top 15 most significant limestone cave system in Australia by scientific experts.

Cliefden Caves are located on the Belubula River in Central Western New South Wales, between the towns of Carcoar and Canowindra. The limestone at Cliefden was the first discovered in inland Australia, and is the location of internationally recognised Ordovician fossil sites.

The caves contain a wide variety of calcite formations which have been said to rival those at Jenolan Caves, these include rare blue calcite formations only seen in few locations across Australia. A warm spring is also located at Cliefden, being one of only three associated with caves in NSW. Thanks to the diligence and care of local landowners and cavers these unique caves remain in pristine condition with access restricted to scientific researchers and bona fide speleologists.

So what’s at stake?

  • ▶︎ Pristine caves and formations
  • ▶︎ The first limestone deposits discovered in inland Australia
  • ▶︎ Internationally recognised fossil sites
  • ▶︎ The best developed caves in Central Western NSW
  • ▶︎ Indigenous and early European settlement cultural sites
  • ▶︎ Important regional bat sites
  • ▶︎ Location of one of only three thermal springs associated with caves in NSW
  • ▶︎ An irreplaceable scientific resource

We can’t protect this national treasure alone and need your support, so please take the time to stay in touch and sign up to our campaign today. Your interest makes us stronger!

 

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Caves
With over 100 recorded caves, Cliefden Caves is one of the most cavernous limestone areas in New South Wales. The caves at Cliefden have a network pattern guided by geological structure in the Ordovician limestone. While they are located close to the Belubula River, there is no evidence that streams or the river have ever flowed through the caves. The caves show evidence of solution by rising groundwater, possibly related to the adjacent thermal spring. The caves are extremely well decorated with the full range of cave formations, the quality of which have been likened to the nearby Jenolan Caves. The caves contain rare blue stalactites, stalagmites, helictites and columns, and unusual mineral and mud deposits which are an important record of past environments. All caves at Cliefden are locked and gated for their protection, however speleological and scientific work is allowed under strict conditions.

History
The Cliefden Caves Limestone was the first discovered in inland Australia, being recorded on 24 May, 1815 during the explorations of surveyor G. W. Evans, only 2 years after the crossing of the Blue Mountains. Reference was also made to it by Oxley in 1817. The first land grants were taken up by Rothery brothers in 1832. The barn at the Cliefden homestead sports bullet holes from when the Rothery family was held up by the infamous Ben Hall gang in the 1860s! Caves have been known for over a century and were recorded by Wilkinson in 1892 and Trickett in 1908. The limestone was extensively mapped by Carne and Jones in 1919.

Fossils
The invertebrate fossils at Cliefden have long been recognized as iconic examples of Australia’s paleontological heritage. The fossils are over 450 million years old and are remains of ancient marine animals. At least 62 scientific papers have been published in a variety of international journals, documenting 191 genera and 263 species of fossils from these and other sites in the vicinity of Cliefden Caves; of these, 45 genera and 101 species are unique to the area threatened by flooding. Some of the many ancient marine species that are preserved at Cliefden include trilobites, brachiopods, bryozoa and stromatoporoids.

Thermal Spring
A thermal spring is located on the Belubula River near the caves. It is only one of three thermal springs associated with karst in NSW. Warm springs rising from Palaeozoic rock (as opposed to those from the Australian Basin) are rare in NSW with only three documented, all in karst areas. These are the Cliefden Warm Spring, the Wee Jasper warm spring and the warm spring at Yarrangobilly Caves.

 

The Eldon Range – Magnet for the Slightly Deranged

Tasmania’s Eldon Range seems to be a magnet for the slightly deranged: from the salted-meat chomping, tweed-wearing pioneers of old to the obsessive peak baggers and scrub warriors of today.

Between the three of us, I think we just managed to scrape together the requisite amount of madness and masochistic tendency to justify a trip.

Situated deep in the Cradle Mountain-Lake St Clair National Park, and visible from parts of the famous Overland Track, this sprawling dolerite range is remote: Ten days of nasty off-track walking remote. At its centre is Eldon Bluff, a colossal nugget of rock whose 1000 meter long, 300 meter high vertical face deserves the kind of wilderness-calendar saturation that the (relatively) piddly Cradle Mountain enjoys.

When we informed one of the park rangers of our trip, her response was “Ohh, where’s that?” The range’s isolation and general bigness means there are number of possible approaches, none of which are particularly easy. We chose the “traditional” traverse, which starts from the boat-accessed northern end of Lake Burbury and heads east 70 km to Lake St Clair, where we envisaged stumbling dramatically out of the scrub in front of a group of unsuspecting Overlanders.

The adventure began before we had even Velcroed of gaiters on. Getting to the start of the route involved a 5am wake-up, a dubious take-away breakfast, a specially charted minibus from Lake St Claireto Lake Burbury and a bouncy ride in an aged dingy helmed by an equally aged fisherman who can be described, fairly uncontroversially, as a “character”. Our ferryman dropped us and our obscenely heavy packs on the far side of Lake Burbury – two days walk from the road – and motored off into the distance.

We set off, heavily-laden but sprightly, buoyed by Jared’s insistence that the first day would be “a cruisey three hours.” Eight and a half hours of sloppy navigation later, we waded out of the Eldon River into a beautiful rainforest campsite. Dinner was eaten out on the shingled rocks.

The destination for day two was Eldon Peak: 3 km east of us and nearly 1.2 km above us. The morning’s other daunting statistics included: the dry weight of my pack (24kg), the number of litres of water I needed to carry (3) and the number of scrub free routes to the summit (0). Upwards was the main motif of the day, at first through open rainforest, then tighter stuff, then proper, bona-fide scrub (ex-Army Mark offered to lead – we graciously allowed him to) and finally boulders to the summit.

The route ahead was worrying. The main ridge connecting Eldon Peak to Eldon Bluff could be accurately described as a spine, assuming of course, that the owner of said spine had kyphosis and a severe case of disc herniation. It did not look like fun.

We pitched tents on ledge just below the summit and did some serious, 270 degree-view-aided relaxing for the rest of the afternoon.

We got up early on day three, packed up and pushed on. The dolerite mayhem began. Car-sized boulders jutted phallically in all directions, leaving big person-swallowing, leg-breaking, skin-scraping holes between them. A fairly uniform pattern emerged: When the boulders got too hectic we would drop down low into the scrub, and after half an hour or so of squeezing packs under dwarf myrtle and spiky Richea Scorparia, realise that actually, no, anything is better than scrub. So we would climb back up to the ridge-top, see the gaping holes and towering pillars and begin the cycle again. After six hours of inching our way forward over the spine’s seemingly infinite number “vertebrae” we reached a saddle, and collapsed for lunch.

Afterwards the fun continued.

More boulders!

More scrub!

More agonising little hills!

We reached a high plateau by late afternoon and pitched tents. Jared’s fanatical peak-bagging nature overcame his exhaustion and he decided to do Eldon Bluff that evening. Weirdly, I agreed to go with him. For some reason I wasn’t tired anymore; perhaps it was delight of finally taking my pack off, perhaps the “Growling Dog” energy bar I had for lunch was laced with something, or perhaps (more likely) the unending repetition of boulder after boulder had wreaked so much psychological havoc that I had come to enjoy it.

We got up there in a bit over an hour, and what was left of my mind was blown by the views. Jared’s sedentary city lifestyle made itself apparent on the return, but I was still in state of boulder induced mania and bounced my way back to the tent, climbing in and crashing after almost 13 hours on the move.

On day four we awoke to rain, hail, cloud and tent deforming wind. I don’t think the call to have a tent day was actually formally made, we just kind of lay there and waited. I stunned myself with my daytime napping ability.

Day five was marginally better: the wind wasn’t as bad, but it was still wet, and freezing. We packed up soaked gear with numb fingers and slipped on down to the saddle where the ascent of Eldon Bluff starts. It is generally advised to climb over the Bluff and drop down the other side, but we decided to sidle the Bluff instead. We were sidling like pros that trip. Wet, steep, slippery scrub ensued as we stuck close to the cliffs that are potentially the highest in Tasmania.

A couple of hours later we came to a grassy plateau that led out to Dome Hill, a fairly unassuming, no-nonsense little lump that Mark and Jared were set upon climbing. Getting out there was the easiest walking of the whole trip, and while it wasn’t a particularly exhilarating climb, it was quite something to think that there was not a single road, walking track, man-made object or human being for 20 km in any direction. The view back to Eldon Bluff was also quite something.

We bashed down through a grove of Richea pandanifolia whose serrated fronds were just looking for an eyeball to slice [Editor’s note – Yikes! Please be careful], and reached Lake Ewart. For some reason, Parks and Wildlife have installed a log book at the lake’s edge (evidently, I lied a bit about the man-made object part before) which, since 2010, has had a grand total of three entries.

To reach our campsite there was a climb, and more scrub. It was bad. I was tired. Mark described the mood rather succinctly: “This is quite shitty.” However at the top after nine and a half hours, with tents erected, the sun setting over the Eldon Bluff and food bubbling away in our pots, the mood could not have been better.

On day six, I slept in while Mark and Jared climbed the nearby Castle Hill. Apparently I didn’t miss much. We packed up camp just before midday and headed on across a series of ridges and knolls to the base of High Dome. The good weather didn’t make up for unpleasantness of the scrub. It wasn’t impossibly thick, but it had a constant level of nastiness, the nature of which varied subtlety according to the particular variety of scunge we were walking through.

In the great struggle of man against flora, the vegetation will always triumph.

We set up camp on a saddle, climbing to the summit of High Dome just before the onset of darkness and rain.

Day seven greeted us with wind, serious cold and virtually every possible form of precipitation. We abandoned our plans to reach Lake St Clair and decided to scamper south down to the Lyell Highway. We headed south, scrubbing it up past Five Duck Tarn, and down into a valley. The going got steep, the forest got thick and things began to look a bit nasty. Then someone said: “Hey, this has been cut!” It was true. There was a branch, a whole bush, sheared off cleanly by a very un-wildernessy force, one most probably associated with a power tool. Someone had cut a track. There was no tape marking it, no real signs of use and no foot pad leading into it. Just a reasonably wide path cut in the middle of nowhere. Was this an attempt to recreate the historical Ewart track? Someone’s secret route into the Eldons? A maniac with a brush cutter and a deep hatred of native vegetation? Despite its illegality and questionable wilderness ethics, we were grateful. A minor victory for the humans.

We reached the bottom of the valley and the track stopped, reappeared for a short time, then ended completely. We spend the rest of the afternoon bashing upwards towards Junction Hill. The wind was strong and it was too cold to stop for a break. The only sheltered campsite was underneath Rocky Hill and we had no idea how long it would take to get there. Remembering Jared’s time prediction on the first day, his suggestion of “maybe an hour” wasn’t particularly reassuring. I caught a peek of the ridge between the two hills and I really felt like giving up there and then. It was already 4 PM and from the look of the scrub I could imagine it taking well over 5 hours. The others wanted to go on and despite some mutinous thoughts I begrudgingly followed.

The chainsaw wielding saviour was back! Sometimes the destruction of untouched wilderness can be a wonderful thing. We followed Brushcutter Bob’s (Stan the Chainsaw Man’s?) path of carnage across the ridge, climbed another small hill and slithered down through wet scrub to a lovely, pine covered shelf where we camped.

Day eight probably had the worst weather of all, with more rain and wind gusts that turned our tents into pancakes. I was quite keen to get to the highway but Mark was not in a good way. The previous day had knocked him around and he was on the edge of hypothermia. Another tent day was the only responsible choice.

The weather finally came right on day nine and we skedaddled out of camp and down a long bumpy ridge. It was mostly button grass and scrub, but as always, our power tool loving hero was there when we needed him most. Mark called his wife on the satellite phone and organised a rendezvous on the road. As we climbed over the last little knoll on the ridge we could see the car.

The end – a shifting, abstract concept that had alluded us for the last few days – looked like it was finally here. We stumbled down the last slope, expecting to wade across the ankle deep Collingwood River and stride triumphantly out onto the sweet tarmac of the Lyell Highway.

We’d forgotten about all the rain; the river was almost flooded. This was problematic for a number of reasons: a) the bridge was a full day’s walk away, b) I was the only one could swim with any degree of proficiency and b) the Hungry Wombat Café in Derwent Bridge close their kitchen at 4PM.

It was a race against time. I jumped in and swam across, leaving my pack on the wilderness side of the river. I headed towards the road, found Mark’s wife and the car, which (thanks to Mark’s foresight) contained a rope and a life jacket. I took the rope back to the river, tied it to a tree and threw it across.

It was too short.

I adjusted the knot and tried again.

Still too short.

I swam back across with the rope and water temperature almost sent me into convulsions. It was just long enough to hook my pack to, but not quite long enough for people. Like a pendulum, I went back across with my pack. I tried a bit further downstream but I couldn’t throw the rope across.

I tied my drink bottle to the end for weight.

The drink bottle broke.

I tied a stone to the end.

The stone slipped out.

I found a better stone.

About eight throws later Jared managed to catch the rope with his outstretched foot. We got Jared and his pack across. Mark, who can’t swim at all, refused to cross without the lifejacket. I couldn’t throw it across. Swim number four. Weird little jaw muscles I didn’t know I had went into cold induced spasms. Mark, life jacket clad but still terror stricken, got hauled across with his pack. Swim number five. We were all bedraggled and panting, but across.

We picked up our water filled packs and fought our way through our last bit of scrub towards the waiting car. I almost felt nostalgic.