Recently I published the post Snakes Alive.
Today I have been informed that the snakes I saw in recent walks would not be the White Lipped Snake or Whip Snake because the size of the snakes I saw is too large; rather those I saw are likely to be juvenile Tiger or Brown snakes. I cannot find any information or photographs showing or describing an immature snake that matches what I have seen. Are there any blog followers who know their Tasmanian snakes? If so, I welcome feedback.
Through the bush near the town ship of Derwent Bridge, many tracks criss-cross the landscape and I can see that some might get lost – and the maps do not show all tracks. However, no walker should have a problem if s/he remembers that going downhill will either bring him or her out onto the Derwent River or onto the Lyell Highway.
Nevertheless, when I came across a series of stones arranged into an arrow pointing along one track, I chose to believe it was the best track to take.
Of course it was a risk to trust the arrow, because the stones could have been arranged for other purposes rather than to get someone to the town of Derwent Bridge by the shortest route. I was pleased that sometime later, the Lyell Highway was in front of me albeit with a padlocked gate between us. When I walked onto the road and looked back, this is what I saw.
That was the first and only sign between Clark Dam and the southern end of Lake King William and this gate that indicated I was walking on private land which I should not be on. Too late! I have arrived.
The Derwent River was not far away. It is located between the gate and the Derwent Bridge Hotel 250 metres westwards.
I was elated because I arrived in Derwent Bridge a day earlier than I expected. A lovely surprise.
Lake King William, the electricity transmission lines and their towers, the cleared but regrowing areas surrounding them, and the nearby 4WD vehicle tracks changed the landscape from its original form and I spotted other signs of non-aboriginal intervention in the bush.
As I was closing in on civilisation again, while nearing the town ship of Derwent Bridge, I noticed a felled log beside the track with saw marks. What struck me as strange was the way more than one straight length of timber had been sawn from within the tree trunk.
Not a letterbox
When walking through the bush from time to time you see tree stumps with a horizontal man-made slit. These were not letter boxes for use by the old European settlers. Rather they were part of the process to fell huge ancient trees. Where I was walking, the trees would have been felled to clear a path for the electrical transmission power lines and the 4WD track.
These notches were made in the days when strong men wielded axes with accuracy and extraordinary bush knowledge. This was before chain saws: the massive girth of many trees would have rendered such equipment useless. In addition, such tree clearings were in an area too remote for massive machinery to access, even if it had existed.
At its simplest, the process can be described as: first the axeman cuts a small slit in the tree trunk then jams a board into the gap. He (and I have never heard of a woman doing this) jumps up onto that board. Then he creates a new slit higher up the tree, grabs a second board and jams that into the new slit. He jumps up onto the second board and releases the first board, rests it across the one on which he stands, and then he cuts another slit higher up. The process is repeated until he is sufficiently high to start cutting a 45 degree notch which will help the tree fall in a certain direction. After a while, the axeman descends and repeats the process up the same tree from another angle, then continues on cutting the notch until the top part of the tree sends signs that it will fall. At this point, in order to stay alive, he jumps down the tree as quickly as he can and moves a distance away being careful not to be struck by any other vegetation or tree than is inadvertently brought down at an unexpected angle.
From this practice has grown the international sport of wood chopping which includes a competition on tree felling. The image below from the Queensland Archive shows how this looks in the sporting arena.
Did you know the first wood chopping competitions were held on the north-west coast of Tasmania (not far from where I was born)? These days the competitions have become an international event. To see how it all works in practice, at least in competitions, I suggest you have a look at a local competition in Canada on You Tube
In recent walks (Nearing Derwent Bridge from Lake King William, and between the Florentine River and Wayatinah), I have been surprised to see two examples of one of Tasmania’s venomous snakes the White Lipped Snake, also known as the Whip Snake. What I saw was a delicate slender olive greenish brown snake with soft looking velvety skin. You can refer to the Department of Primary Industries, Parks, Water and Environment’s site for more information.
The first snake was close to a metre in length and calmly meandered across the stony track, about a metre in front of me, as I descended towards the town of Derwent Bridge. The second snake was just under half a metre in length and was lying on the gravel road in the greenish shade – something made me look down and I realised I was only a couple of steps from standing on it. Naturally I stopped, apologised for my intrusion, stepped away to the other side of the road, and the snake in its own good time, calmly and slowly slid off into the bush away from me.
The length of my snakes is greater than that which the above government website suggests for the standard length. Mine were very slim but long.
These experiences have now made me doubt a ‘fact’ which I had always believed. The ‘fact’ is that snakes feel the vibration through the ground of something coming towards them and then disappear because they are fundamentally shy and do not seek confrontation. The website listed above suggests the Whip Snake is shy but my experience is at odds with their information.
A chat with another walker recently reminded me that wearing gaiters is a protection against snake bite on the lower legs. I had forgotten that important use – I was only thinking of wearing them in muddy conditions. If you don’t know what they look like, then the Paddy Palin website, for example, show a range of gaiter styles.
I have been scheduling new posts to arrive onsite over the coming days. However, every so often WordPress ignores my scheduling and sends a post out – these posts are incomplete, and out of sequence with the story of my walking to the source of the Derwent River from the town ship of Derwent Bridge. It is difficult to know what to tell you to ignore – I do know one post associated with walking to Pumphouse Point has jumped out of line so ignore that today and expect to see it with glorious photos in a few days time.
In any landscape, every hill has its ups and downs. Having crested the hill separating me away from Lake King William but with the Derwent River on my left as I walked northwards, I was astonished that I could see Lake St Clair. There, as a bright white beacon on the water surface, was the Pumphouse Point Hotel. You will need to enlarge the photo below to see the tiny white block in upper left centre. To its right a small portion of the Derwent Basin can be seen. The Derwent Basin empties into St Clair Lagoon, and where that Lagoon is dammed, the Derwent River starts its long run to the sea.
Of course the source was still a long way away, but I knew seeing this vista meant I was closing in on the point where the Derwent River started.
Then I started downhill on the sharp rocky track.
At the halfway down point, I photographed the view both up and down.
Before long I was walking with the River to my left and a dry forest beside me.
My map of the Lake King William area showed the 4WD vehicle Switchyard Track restarting on the northern side of the plain on the far side of the power line ‘clearway’. I believed if I walked westwards under the powerlines then eventually I would see clearings through the trees and locate the track.
In my previous post I introduced the deeply compressible mossy plant that prevented rhythmic walking. All the pale green vegetation in the photo above is that soft spongy moss. Admirably beautiful to behold but challenging to walk across.
Our world is full of thoughts about ‘mindfulness’ and ‘being present’. Walking this section required 100% concentration. I was forever present as I focused on the ground checking where my next step might be placed. I stumbled along for seemingly ages until I noticed a row of rocks unnaturally placed at the tree line. That had to be a marker for the track. It was. Relieved, I was soon following the track westwards. I remember taking many photos of the dense forests either side of that track, but obviously I did not properly make the click because there are no photographs. I remember the air was clean and cool. Delightfully fresh. Eventually the track emerged from the forest and continued for a short distance next to the plain. The photo below which looks back inland, clearly shows the extensive depth of that plain.
Still parallel to the plain, the track ran westwards towards the water of Lake King William.
Soon I was surrounded by forest which, in normal climate conditions, would be a wet forest.
Occasionally I could look southwards and see out over the plain to Lake King William.
Eventually I found great vantage points to look back inland. I suspect that had I been able to walk across the plain to this point, I would not have needed to battle through the button grass, moss and spiky plants. But I remembered this spacious landscape might, on other days and after considerable rain, be a sheet of water.
A while later I could see the Derwent River flowing into the northern end of Lake King William.
Then I began the uphill climb on, what the maps marked as, an incline topping 800 metres. I realise that the Lake and river would not be at sea level, but in my mind I wanted the exaggeration because it made me feel like I had achieved a major climb once I reached the top. Silly, I know. But these are some of my inconsequential mind games.
On the way up I deviated through a complex rain forest. Gentle. Beautiful. In the second photo below the Derwent River can be seen as a washed out blue line through the trees – my tablet camera cannot cope with lighting extremes.
Majestic tall straight trees amazed me at every turn.
By placing one foot over the other and enjoying the bush sounds, the top of the hill was gained. What an extraordinary morning had passed: from starting the day packing up the tent and collecting fresh Lake water to drink, to battling my way across challenging vegetation, farewelling Lake King William, reuniting with the undammed Derwent River, to climbing a relentless hill with all the unexpected visual pleasures that provided. I felt clean of mind and spirit. Refreshed. Alive. And grateful.
Last night I posted “Crossing the plain”. However, I forgot to link the photos properly into the WordPress blogsite (an additional process required by their latest site update procedures).
This means that for those people who receive an automatic email indicating each new posting, when they click on a photo it doesn’t enlarge. I have now made the necessary change so, if you want to click on and enlarge the photos, go to the post.
Before reaching the plain, I stepped across a couple of tiny rivulets the waters of which were heading to Lake King William. The map indicated I should expect a number of these. None impacted on the ease of the walk. 
After walking approximately two thirds of the length of Lake King William from the south northwards, the track ended in a mire of deep dry criss-crossing ruts a few hundred metres inland. Obviously when the land was wet, vehicles had tried to continue onto the plain using bits of driftwood to give purchase – but the ruts soon stopped so I knew these man-made beasts had retreated, albeit with difficulty. My photo below, with Mount Charles looking down, does not adequately present the depth or the complexity of the intrusion of vehicles.
In a recent posting I added in a link to Tassie Rambler’s blog . I suggest you revisit that site to look at the photographs showing what the area looks like when wet. Look for Mount Charles in the photos and then, in the photos that follow, you can see the wet plain that the Tassie Rambler experienced. I am immensely grateful for the dryness I found.
Mount Charles looked down on the plain which stretched wide and extended perhaps a kilometre inland from the Lake. I knew I needed to aim at the pointed hill (see photo below) in the distance and be prepared to walk around it.
A snaking crevasse meandered through this seeming flatness. My map named Bethune Creek as the main watercourse in the area so I knew I needed to make a water crossing at some stage. My passage point was a log resting on both sides of the land. Crossing Bethune Creek was easy.
The ground either side of the Creek and presumably across the plain was not wet, nevertheless it was springy under foot and I bounced as I walked.
Acres and acres of this ‘ground’ extended in all directions and a decision was required. Should I walk beside Bethune Creek until I was much closer to Lake King William and then try and get through the bush, find a track and continue on solid ground? Alternatively, because I could see the power lines in a row parallel to the plain, I wondered whether I should walk through the bush towards them as soon as I could see an easy route. From where I stood it was not clear that accessing the power line area would be easy or even possible if I proceeded closer to the Lake so I decided to make a path to the power lines through the band of small bushes and undergrowth which seemed to be the narrowest. It didn’t look difficult.
This was where the fun started.
Over the years, bushwalkers have groaned at the memory of experiences crossing button grass plains. Until this walk, I had no experience of walking through these plants. Now I understand bushwalkers’ groans. When you see the images below of the button grass it appears not to present difficulties for walking – but appearances deceive.
Despite the fact I only needed to cover about 100 metres of these beautiful looking plants, it was one of the most exhausting and frustrating processes I have ever endured. However, even as I tried to negotiate the distance, I could see the funny side if someone else had been watching my antics and halting progress.
Each button grass plant has a thick roughly circular base and then sprouts long arms some of which end with a spherical seed case, the button. Around and between each plant run channels which, in wetter times, would be a muddy, marshy, boot-removing quagmire. Thankfully, these channels were bone dry when I made the crossing. The channels were the width of one of my feet so on occasion I tried to walk in the channels. The channels are deep so that the top of the surrounding button grass plants were sometimes around my armpit height. This meant seeing the best forward path was not always possible. After making a few steps around a few plants, I would think I had found a way to continue reasonably comfortably, albeit not in a straight line to my destination. Then suddenly a mesh of grasses from a number of close growing plants would be so thick that I could not force my way through nor step over. Then I would hump myself up to balance in the middle of a grass plant, my backpack changing my centre of gravity. The irregularity of the height and thickness of the plants required constant rebalancing to stay upright. And I didn’t stay upright. I couldn’t. So I would fall onto my back perhaps across a plant or two or perhaps into or straddling a channel. I lay there, rather like a beetle with legs and arms flailing in the air where turning over or getting up seems impossible. Then I would unhitch my back pack, firm my footing in a channel, load my backpack on, and start again. How many times did this happen? I cannot say. But the landings were always soft and not jarring. These were gentle falls backwards offering marvellous sky views!
After much time – was it an hour or more? – the vegetation changed to a combination of few button grass plants, a nice little short spiky leaved plant (mind over matter was required to proceed through this), and a deeply spongy moss.
In the photo below, across the low level growth, the taller spiky plant can be seen left of centre, and the pale green plant in the foreground is the moss. Again this photo shows a landscape that looks easy to walk through. I promise you that looks deceive greatly. The ground beneath the plants was uneven, and some of the plants were deeply compressible by different degrees.
I do not think the soft mossy plant, which slowed my progress considerably, was Sphagnum Moss one of Tasmania’s endemic species; however I am unable to identify it. Looking firm, I would step onto a smooth looking mass and that foot might sink a few inches, twelve inches, or I might drop down to knee height in the mass. Meanwhile the other foot and leg stayed elsewhere up someplace on another firmer plant. Unused muscles got a stretch. Keeping my balance was crucial because falling on the spiky plants held no allure.
A couple of years ago I attended classes to learn to dance the Argentine Tango in which balance is critical to success. During the dance, the man leads and the woman may need to stay balanced mid move on one foot for an unknown time. This means every time I made a step I needed to be prepared to stop, not sway, and keep centred. The dance experience proved useful in Tasmania’s wilderness as I negotiated a path through these plants. Speed was never an option.
I am not proud to say that I disturbed the landscape on this section of the walk. However, the extraordinary resilience of the plants on which I stepped amazed me. They bounced back to their original shape immediately. When I stepped off the button grass plants and the moss, I could not see any mark of where I had been, although I recognise that at a micro level (perhaps even closer inspection) my steps would be in evidence on these plants.
Eventually I reached the power line clearway. It wasn’t clear. Dreams of easy walking remained dreams.
At 6 am, my day started with soft clouds. And it was cool; just perfect for walking. It was only later, around midday, that I removed my jacket. Each of the sky, the water of Lake King William and the air seemed silvery. Perhaps I was influenced by the beautiful soft grey colours of the driftwood and dead trees. Serenity.
Before departing my camp site, I filled my water bladders with Lake water. Later, when staying in Cabin accommodation at the town ship of Derwent Bridge, I poured some water into a sparkling clean glass. I was surprised. The water was crystal clear. No sediment. No wriggling larvae. As I thought; this was pure water. Marvellous!
Time sped fast while I slowed down. It was 7.30 am before I started walking.
It wasn’t long before Mount Charles stood ahead to the north. I knew I needed to find a way to walk around its left-hand side.
The night before, from the rocky shore I could see Charles. In the photo below, at some distance to the left of the Mount I picked out a U shaped cut in the landscape. From the map, I knew the electricity transmission line pathway passed through that gap.
I expected to walk in the regrowth up that hill. In a direct line, approximately 2kms separated my camping site from the foot of that hill. Between the two locations the map indicated a swampy area. Google Maps show a water-filled bay. No crossing tracks are evident.
What Google Maps show:
What I saw from the south eastern end:
What I saw from the north western end with a sliver of Lake King William in view:
What I saw from the north western end looking inland back towards where I had crossed:
I imagine you are thinking this ‘plain’ which was once filled as part of the Lake, would be easy to cross, and that it would take me no time. Well my story is different from those expectations. I took three hours to cover the 2kms from the camping spot to the foot of the hill with the transmission line . Despite my experiences, I visualised my progress and could see the funny side.
The story starts as I walk towards Mount Charles and will be detailed in the next post.
Fairly early in my walk along the eastern edge of Lake King William, when I neared the power transmission lines, signs such as the following were posted.
I have no idea how close one must be to incur death, and therefore the concept of a ‘near approach’ is rather meaningless. However, because I saw the 4WD track crossing under the power lines from time to time, I guessed that walking along these tracks wouldn’t bring on my early demise, well at least not from electricity jumping about. And so I live to tell tales.
Later in the walk when I approached another sign, the combination of the sign and the vista created a special message.
The way my simple mind worked was this: Lake King William is a man-made lake damming the burblings and gurglings of the infant Derwent River. The purpose of the Lake is to enable hydro-electricity power generation. The Lake drowned the native vegetation and dead trees are the result. The Danger sign alerts people to the danger of death from the electricity pouring through the wires overhead. The making of electricity kills and electricity itself is a killer.
As I walked, I thought a lot about the conservation needs of our forests and our contemporary way of life needs.
On the one hand, I can imagine the sorrow and despair that some will have when seeing the photos of the dead remains of old forests jutting out of the land as the Lake’s water level drops. I guess some people would wish this dramatic change to the original landscape never happened.
On the other hand, most people want to click lights on at night, recharge their technological devices, and have a refrigerator to keep their food cold and safe, run a washing machine, boil water and cook food. Without electricity (which is always generated using some natural resource), our contemporary lives could not continue. Hydro power is cleaner than coal power, and not dangerous like nuclear power. If we must have electricity, which resource source should we use? The creation of wind turbines changes landscapes and uses large quantities of processed mineral resources. Equipment to support the gathering of solar power also uses processed mineral resources. If we choose to live as we have become accustomed, then ancient forests will be continue to be lost either directly or indirectly. There are very few who would give up the use of anything made from or using electricity. I wonder if it is even possible to do so absolutely in first world and most third world countries.
An earlier post told how I started the walk on the eastern shore of Lake King William at 4 pm. Once on the way, I saw the following views.
I planned to walk until around 7.30 but I walked until 8.30 pm before finding a spot that I liked near the water.
I enjoyed the walk, my knees and ankles and feet were all travelling relatively comfortably, the day had a mild temperature which made passing through the bush a delight, and I was excited to be out in the wilds again and exploring and discovering.
Despite considerable research, I couldn’t be sure what to expect nor could I calculate how fast and far I could go. I knew part of my uncertainty was based on not knowing the degree of wetness I might encounter, and not knowing how much bush would be difficult to walk through.
In the end I found it easiest to walk on the blue metal based Switchyard Track where it ran next to the Lake edge or deviated very little inland. Occasionally I walked in the regrowth area beneath the powerlines.
I felt free. Lucky. Profoundly happy. Immensely privileged to be able to make such a walk. But as the sun edged closer to the western horizon, a tiny fear began to niggle. Would I be able to find a flat area to pitch my tent before the sun went down? I didn’t want to walk in the dark in case I tripped and injured myself all the while knowing there was not a soul around to pass by and render help if needed. Certainly I was armed with my Personal Locator Beacon but I never want to press the SOS button.
I reminded myself of all the luck I have had in life, and how ‘the right thing always happens at the right time’ for me. And so it did yet again: not long before the sun went down I noticed the remnants of a vehicular track T-junctioning the main track on which I walked. That barely visible track headed towards the Lake. Feeling partly desperate and partly positive, I followed the track until it stopped at the bank of the Lake, fifty or more metres from the water edge. Within the red circle in the photo below is the track on which I camped, and my backpack can be seen to the left of the track – this photo was taken next morning.
As the sun went down behind the ranges on the opposite side of the Lake. the decision was made for me; so the tent was pitched, my dehydrated dinner set in a water filled billy to soak, and I slipped and flopped over the shore to the water. Wonderfully clean water. Pure tasting water. Untainted. And I remember feeling the water was warmer than the quickly declining air temperature. For a split second I contemplated stripping off and going for a swim. But reason prevailed. No point in catching night air chills.
The two photos below are taken after sunset at the Lake bank near my camping spot at the same point and at the same time – because of the intensity of the light my tablet’s camera can’t compensate easily.
The weather forecast had indicated the overnight temperature could be around 6 degrees Celcius and I felt the dramatic drop as the daylight began to disappear. I was glad I carried a winter beanie and thermals and it was a reminder that inland Tasmania has weather/climate extremes regardless of the season (and this is high summer time). My warm clothes were worn until bedtime. And then, perhaps with the shock of the walk and all the related experiences, and/or with the lowering temperature I shivered in my sleeping bag until I relaxed and its warming qualities kicked in.
I lay trying to hear the sounds of the night and the bush, but the rustle of my sleeping bag made that impossible. Then I resigned myself that I would never hear the rhythms of the bush. As yet I have not heard the murderous cries of fighting Tasmanian Devils in the night – probably best. So, finally when I was well fed, warm and comfortable, I drifted off to sleep.
Lake King William extends over 15 kilometres in length and, with various mountains and ranges situated nearby and influencing the weather, I was not surprised that the vegetation varied considerably.
Amidst ferns and other plants, flanking my walk on the first day were endless bushes with their native red sometimes pink sometimes almost white berries. Some refer to this plant as the Pink Mountain Berry. Is this plant also known as the native currant?
Mostly I was impressed with the tall straight gum trees, some with their ‘painted’ trunks.
A gum tree with its curling bark, like gift parcel wrapping strands, attracted my attention.
Further north, myrtle and other complex forests grew in rich profusions, sometimes creating dense dark forests.
I passed by an area with stands of remarkable tall trees, so tall I needed two photos to show most of their height.
More than a few trees have toppled over, or been blown down and wrenched from the ground so their roots are upturned.
I loved the delicate and tiny trigger plants; luminous neon pink in colour.
Tasmanian native mountain pepper (Tasmannia Lanceolata) bushes flourished everywhere.
The bush was awash with a flush of native flowers, which I cannot identify.
In the photo below, the low level vegetation beneath the powerlines near the southern end of the Lake is contrasted by the tall bush at the edges.
The low level of water on Lake King William exposed a wilderness of silvered dead trees (once ancient forests) and a rocky shore. Sometimes the rocky shore extended flatly to the Lake and sometimes it dived down deeply. Where I camped on the first night, the distance of the water from the bank would have been at least fifty metres. Elsewhere the wide rocky shoreline extended 100 or more metres. A combination of various sized boulders, stones, fine gravel and the occasional sand, this shore line created a sometimes grey and sometimes yellow ring enclosing the huge expanse of lake.
From the drowning of the landscape, the now receding waters are giving up the flotsam of driftwood. The surfaces of the wood, smoothed by the action of the weather and the Lake, are stunningly beautiful.
Van Diemen’s Land (Tasmania)’s mother country England was governed by 3 King Williams preceding settlement of Australia (Tasmania received its first European settlers in 1803). William IV of the United Kingdom reigned from 1830 and lived until 1837. Indirectly our Lake King William which dams the Derwent River was named after the Fourth.
Watching over Lake King William is Mount King William and the King William Range. Wikipedia reports that Mount King William was named during Sir John Franklin’s journey into western Tasmania in 1842. Hydro Tasmania created the Lake in 1950 and referred to the nearby geographical features which had been named by European explorers in the 19th century, for its current name.
The photo above with snow topping the Range was taken in October 2015. The photo below was taken in January 2016.
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Walking the Derwent River 
