A little mountain magic, a sprinkling of snow
from Tasmania, with love
Dear friends,
The school holidays have begun and writing time is short. I’m sending you a little mountain magic and a sprinkling of snow. I hope you enjoy.
As always, I am grateful for your support, your comments, and your hearts. My days are warmer with you all.
Kate xx
Up here, the landscape has a light of its own. Everything glitters with a magical quality.
Snow drifts lie tucked beneath the stalks of yellow pineapple grass, and nestle beside gatherings of grey dolerite boulders, splashed with red and white lichen. Ice floats on the surface of a hundred tiny lakes, not yet frozen. And all around there is a sprinkling of white frost.
Weathered snow poles — ice crystals sprouting from their wooden bodies — stick out of the ground at awkward angles, the legacy of years of enduring strong westerly winds on the summit. And though the winter sky is heavy with cloud, and the sunlight is only a pale cream strip, the landscape twinkles.
I want to tell you: it is more beautiful than all of the night lights of my home city.
I am walking on the plateau of Mount Mawson1, in southern Tasmania. I am not following a track — I am following my heart.
I bend to touch the opaque edge of a sheet of ice in a small lake. A childish thing, I know, but I want to see how strong it is. Will it break? I place my gloved hand on the surface and push. I am surprised it holds. In the middle of the lake, the water is so clear I can see the bright green moss at the bottom. The quiet surprises me too. There is hardly a whisper of sound — just my boots crunching and the breeze whimpering in my ear.
Suddenly, the clouds part to reveal a beautiful scene — in the distance, crisp purple-edged peaks, curling blue lakes, and closer, dark mountains with patches of snow and rocks, and deep-green vegetation. It is an ancient landscape, shaped by the movement of glacial ice, many thousands of years ago. And then, it is gone again, as quickly as it arrived.
I have walked here many times in summer. But in winter, I am gripped by an overwhelming sense of peace. It is not for the snow that I feel this way, nor for the way the landscape dazzles. It’s because the mountain does not welcome me.
I must tell you: walking here in winter is not easy. Beneath my weatherproof jacket and pants, I wear layers — merino wool, polypropylene, and down. Still, my toes ache. I can feel the cold reaching up through my thick rubber soles, trying to catch me. And if I stop moving, it will.
Every now and then, tiny snowflakes twirl in front of my eyes. The air is so fresh it bites. If I stop to take a photo, I must remove my gloves to press the shutter — a decision I do not take lightly.
Up here, I must choose to survive. The mountain does not care. It demands nothing of me, and it asks no questions. And because of this, I feel free — I am one wild soul rushing to greet a wild, dangerous, and snow swept mountain.
*
While I walk, my children and their friends play on the ski run. There isn’t enough snow to ski, but there is enough to roll snow balls and slide on a toboggan. The children find a shovel and make a chute wide enough to ride down. The landing is rough, a mix of vegetation and rocks, but they do not mind. The little ones make a snow cave against the rocks. And the parents take it in turns to walk to the summit.
On my way back, I find my friend N standing behind an old wooden shed that houses the ski tow machinery. There you are, I say. I’m hiding from the wind, she tells me, her eyes red with cold. But both of us know there are other things we are hiding from. Parenting feels so relentless right now. It has taken all our reserves to organise gear and food, carry heavy packs up a wild, snowy mountain, and to sleep with our families in a hut nestled above the snow line. I want to say, It will get easier. But I do not know.
*
Early one morning, I leave the hut to walk along our favourite track to a look out. I want to see the sunrise. The sky is lightening, and the children are setting up board games in the lounge room. I pull my warm clothing over my pyjamas, find my gloves and beanie, and step outside. It has snowed a little overnight, and the landscape is glowing. I love the way the snow perches on top of the panadani2 in little balls, and how ice clings to the leaves of the snow gums3 — like a glittering bush chandelier.
The Tasmanian mountains have a remarkable beauty in winter, known no where else in the world.
Their lower altitude4 means that there is no permanent snow and an abundance of plants and trees that have learned to adapt to their ever changing climate.
Have you visited yet?
*
As I wander back it begins to snow, gentle tiny flakes. I take my time, pausing to marvel at the way they alight on the boulders beside the track. Snow makes everything anew.
When I arrive at the hut, nothing is as I left it. The children are outside — dressed in short pyjamas, unzipped jackets, and gloves. I pass a ‘snowchicken’, complete with sculptured feathers, and a snowman wearing my purple and red scarf, and a giant carrot sticking out for a nose. My friend M is on the deck, cooking eggs and bacon on the barbecue. He is wearing shorts and a down jacket — classic Tasmanian winter attire. I’ll get the pancakes on, I say, as I head for the door. Oh — and thank you for watching the kids. The walk was glorious.
A beautiful poem for you
Other things
There is more winter mountain magic here.
This essay on Antarctic summer sea ice at record lows (written by a Tasmanian) and how it will harm the planet.
Everything is Beautiful and Everything Hurts is on my to read list (thanks C). On running a marathon and growing up. How far would you go to achieve your dreams?
Next month I am running a marathon. (I am writing this here as a form of encouragement, I am hoping I will get through the training in one piece and make it to the start line). I look forward to sharing some words and photos from my adventures when I return home.
What are you reading? What adventures are you up to? I’d love to hear from you.
Until next time,
wishing you a little mountain magic,
Kate xx
Mount Mawson is in Mount Field National Park, which forms part of the Tasmanian Wilderness World Heritage Area.
The pandani is the world's tallest heath plant. Found only in Tasmania's alpine areas, the pandani can grow up to 12 metres high. Its tough, serrated leaves can be up to 1 metre in length.
Snowgum, Eucalyptus coccifera, is a species of eucalyptus tree native to Tasmania, Australia. It is found in the high-altitude regions of the island and is perfectly adapted to cold environments.
Mount Mawson is approximately 1320 metres (4,331 feet) above sea-level.
I love that feeling you describe, Kate, about the mountain pushing you to survive. I know it so intimately, and it always reminds me that life isn't meant to be easy, we are all at nature's mercy, and somehow that makes us feel more alive.
Saying that, the weather has turned nasty on our camping trip and we are enjoying a dry night in a motel in Mount Gambier. Warm showers, takeaway, TV, a heater, and comfy bed 😅
Thanks for taking this near-shut-in along with you. And I like the poem too.