Sometimes we started from the fern glade lower down near houses, and walked up. Or from the Springs, where a wooden, verandahed hotel had sold refreshments to hikers before being burnt to the ground in a bush fire just at the borderline of my childhood memory. Sometimes huge snowflakes wafted, sometimes, on the pinnacle, the wind howled with such force that any walking was close to horizontal.
I had a friend, a writer, who was deeply fascinated by the life of Lady Jane Franklin. Lady Jane was the wife of Sir John, the explorer, who was Governor of Tasmania for a short time in the 1890's. Lady Jane walked across the island. Nearly 100 miles through dense bush and over extremely rugged land, to make an official visit to Port Macquarie, the penal settlement on the West Coast. She was to have travelled in a convict carried chair, but her maid fell ill soon after they left and used it for the entire journey.
A shorter journey Lady Jane made was to the top of Mt Wellington. She started out by bullock wagon from Government House, then following the rivulet to Lenah (kangaroo) Valley, and from there to the pinnacle. I can't remember who was in her party, but it was mostly women, all dressed appropriately for the day in long dresses with tight bodices and no doubt hats and shawls. The day was 13 December 1891. There were no formed or marked tracks, and very few people had ever made the trek. She was the first woman. They were the first women.
On 13 December 1991 a strange bunch of women drove their cars to the Springs. In the wind whipped carpark they laughed and joked at each other's long dresses: heavy jeans and walking boots peeping out below. Straw hats and parasols shyly came out and baskets of food appeared. They set off, an unruly bunch of a dozen or so mums and kids, some older, some younger.
The group walked in a fluid string of knots, as a few came together to walk and chat for a while, and then change into different combinations. The weather was so bad the attempt was nearly cancelled. But it was the centenary on that day, and no other day, even if fine and sunny, would do. Close clouds and misty rain swirled, cold and thick. They hurried for the track where an overhang of vegetation gave some protection. As the track climbed gently along the waistband of the mountain, the mist thickened. Eyes were cast downward to avoid stumbles and wet feet from the small cascades of water crossing the path.
Glances up were rewarding. Crowns of waratah (Tasmania's floral emblem) sat enshrined in leafy nests in glossy shrubs. Stars on leptospermum and a wall of other plants in tiny, firefly blossom glimmered. Bulbous berries, pink, white and purple kept closer to the ground. We became shortsighted, concentrating on the close range, as the mist thickened with every step.
The silence in the mist induced a kind of vacuum where the squelch underfoot reverberated and the wonder of the glades of bushes in flower possessed completely. Can't help wondering if Lady Jane also experienced this overwhelming sense of beauty, where you could almost lose your identity, willingly.
Then, as perceptibly as if we'd broken through a paper bag, we stepped into sunlight. A dim, melting landscape of tall gums became a brilliant white one of clouds. At our feet was a frothy blanket of cloud. Now we saw each other's straw hats, long dresses and lace collars. The modern city of Hobart, usually spread beneath, was hidden. We had stepped into history, or so we felt!
The rough path led on then turned straight up the mountain: the zigzag track. Scrambling up in zigzags, the path ascends beside the organ pipes, columns of rock looking like whale's baleen from Hobart. The distance straight up to the pinnacle is not far, but achingly steep. A few steps, then slow down to breathe deeply, then a few more steps. Some loped up, some went slowly, stopping and turning and breathing the thin, vibrant air.
The track curled around tumbled boulders and some stunted trees. Alone again, encouraging the child. Some bumptious hikers bumped on by, eyes fixed only on the summit and their watches. Years later in the road to Ithaca I read the comfortable affirmation that it is the journey that is important, not the arrival. And Ithaca, a wind blown rather desolate island of the imagination bore some resemblance to the pinnacle of Mt Wellington on that day. Like an island floating in a turbulent ocean of cloud.
This summit is like no other. Huge, huge boulders stand and recline in intelligent groups. Cracked by the intense cold of the winters and worn sleek by winds, they fit with each other, shoulders hunched, creating shelter. We found a huge cluster. Between islands of standing stones were areas of smaller rocks sheltering stunted heathers and mosses and rock pools. In them, tiny shrimp-like creatures jerked about.
By now rather dishevelled, skirts thrown aside and shawls screwed up in our packs, the party laid out in the sunshine on warmed stones. We rummaged hungrily for food. Lady Jane had lunched on tipsey cake (a sponge cake infused with custard and brandy), claret and some plainly prepared offal meat, I can't remember which exactly, perhaps tongue or heart. All this we brought, going back to old recipe books to get it right. Also on our menu were sandwiches, fresh vegetables and tea and coffee.
After the inactivity of resting and eating, we began to feel the coldness of the altitude, which no bright sun can indefinitely banish. Walking along the crest, through forests of huge boulders, we headed for the track to the Huon Valley. Now whitened and wizened trunks of gum curled crazily at the edge of the bush.
Unable to cut the experience short by hurrying down the zigzag, we turned left and picked our way down the long way. Through desultory bush, untidy rubble of rocks and the odd flowering tree, we straggled. It was hard for one or two to descend, a physical difficulty, which slowed the pace. I, who came last up the mountain, skipped and slid down with my eager child, especially as the mist again thickened and hard rain fell.
Regaining the car, gliding around the bends of the mountain road in cushioned comfort, my life in the misty rain resumed. Not long after, we left Tasmania.
Lady Jane left Tasmania too, soon after she stood on the pinnacle.
Gaye Thavisin, written years after the climb, Perth WA 1999
ON THIS PAGE:
Prayer
God of the forests
God of the night rains
God of the winds that are one wind
of the one tree swaying
God of all stars and distances
God of silence
and of all sounds
that rise from silence
and return to it
God of the laughter
in our eyes
guide us
The Door
The miracle of birth is easily recognised;
As soul is swaddled in humanity
At the beginning of a new earthbound adventure.
The arrival toasted with tears of joy;
love sparkling all around.
The miracle of death is difficult to perceive;
As immortal soul discovers freedom
and lays aside the cloak of humanity.
This departure ever too early for the human heart,
chrystalises the love within us.
A door opens, a little humanity
flows out into eternity and a tiny piece of eternity
slips through to us.
A key gilded with sadness,
opening our hearts and minds
teaching us to dance with eternity.
poem and illustration © Maria Blakey
Australia
Dragonfiles
tubes
glossbrown laserblue
crackerbang into the
somersault into the
sungauze
helicopter tilt and
hover doodlezipping
spacelines in the
sunbreeze
bubbles
blacklustre blisters on a
hingetwig diagnosing
touchdown
thin feet on a hot fat rock
bodies
bluebrown duo
helicopulate in
sparklebloom
looptubes welded by a
filament of heat
eight feet on a
steep stalk swaying
in the shadows
on a thin twig
rocking in the shallow
Written and illustrated by Gaye Thavisin
Australia
Tasmania exists in my memory, swirling as substantially in my mind as the thick mists which cling to its valleys.
I lived with the huge presence of Mount Wellington in the backdrop of my life for the first 21 years. It hunched over Hobart like some kind of bad tempered guardian, often wreathed in dark clouds. The ugly scar of a road slashed across its belly and up its chest to the pinnacle had given men work in The Depression. My grandfather was one of them. To be honest we often drove up or walked up or sledded or skidded or stumbled down this road.
Gull
You carve your worship
with stretch of wind
on wingtip
scream your prayer across the mud
the new waves moving in
to break on ancient rocks
The God
that cannot be remembered
cannot be forgotten
Gull II
Sometimes gull
you catch some unseen surge
and rise high
sliding through the slanting spaces
up there
you float alone
through sunlight and the silent wind
living in unending air
above a tiny world
But often gull
you tire
and fall
and fold your wings
down there
anonymous in flocks
you drag your heavy flesh through mud
fighting for a scrap of stinking fish
underneath an endless sky
Five Poems
by Mutahar Williams
USA
The following are a selection from Williams' 1990 publication, The dreams of some similing divinity, Earth Poems by Mutahar Williams. ©Mutahar William. Available from the author: mutahar@jps.net
Awakening
You took me across the desa
At dusk,
Past the old graves —
Single file —
Down the narrow sawah path
Toward the kerosene glow
Of the kampung selamatan.
"I promised them I would come,"
You confide.
Weathered brown faces
Oh so happy now
You've come
Yah.
In an instant
You are one
With the old Ibu
Squatting beside her makeshift stove
On the dirt floor
Deftly directing
Eager hands heaping high
Two bowls of food for us.
Garpu, garpu!
Yah. The spoon is put on my bowl.
They did not question
Your bringing this tall orang asing
To their door. The one
Who needed a spoon.
Not for a minute!
We are one
So easily in the soft singsong
laughter of brown eyes talking.
We share the food they share with us.
Children peek out from behind faded batiks,
Show off, giggle, and hide again.
Old men stand back, smoking their kreteks
As wayang sounds
Layer back the hovering darkness
Ketut kempul...
Gong
We are content.
How is it
You bring contentment
To the very insides
Of a moment?
Is this the gift
That comes
With the promise you keep?
PROFILE: Maria Blakey Artist and poet
Maria was born in London, England in 1965. The Blakey family migrated to Australia in 1972 and settled in Perth, Western Australia. She left home at the age of 17 to study creative arts in Wollongong, New South Wales. After four years at art school, Maria spent a further three years there working in shared studios, and exhibiting her paintings and poetry regularly at the Art Arena co-operative run gallery.
In 1990, the opportunity arose to return to Europe, so Maria packed up her Wollongong life and headed for the white cliffs of Dover. She was opened in Norwich and spent her first latihan year living there, painting and writing a libretto for a short opera. The piece was commissioned by Andrew Ford, a composer who had been one of the lecturers at the Wollongong School of Creative Arts.
Later
We went back
Back through the darkness,
Back along the sawah and past the graves,
Back to the large house behind the walls
Back to the large, brightly lit kitchen
Where a sister scolded that you had disappeared.
You made no answer.
How could you explain
That you had taken me
To the closeness
The closeness I did not know I needed,
The closeness a friend knows and does not speak of,
The closeness with myself.
Sweet remorse
That awakens once again my own soul's prayer:
Please God, let me be able to keep my promise.
©Latifah Taormina
USA
November Dim Sum
After the meal we linger, drinking tea.
The noisy crowds have all departed now.
Through the thick windows seeping, the pale sun
Thinly bestows its end-of-autumn warmth.
Weaving between the chairs with easy grace
Waiters are flicking out fresh tablecloths.
Deftly they spill new settings from their arms:
Small bowls and plates of pure and shining white.
©Rosalind Priestley 1999
Canada
Rien
Toujours rien
Trop à taire
Quelque chose à naître
là
sur la feuille blanche
impermanence des choses
mystère de vivre
Il y a de ces jours obscurs
où le difficile à dire
colle à la plume
se dilue dans l'encre blanc du silence
au revers de la page
Mise-bas
Mise-à-mort
J'attends
J'ai peur...
© Clara Madeleine Gaudet
Canada
Waiting
Nothing
Still nothing
Too much to conceal
Something to be born
there
on the virgin sheet of paper
impermanence of things
mystery of life
There are dark days
when the hard to say
clings to the pen
dilutes itself in the white ink of silence
on the other side of the page
Giving birth
Putting to death
I am waiting
I am afraid...
© Clara Madeleine Gaudet
Canada
Morning Prayer
Ah the green sky
Ah ha the mist
the silver mist
the cobwebs on the grass
the smell of cold cattle
I am tall in Allah
©latifah taormina
Illustration by Hartley Ramsey
After a year in England, Maria went off in search of warmer weather to the south of France. The little town of Forcalquier welcomed her, taught her French, fortitude and the value of poverty. She spent two years living in rather dilapidated houses without running water: filling gerry cans from the town fountain, enjoying the colourings of autumn trees against deep blue mistral swept skies, and painting.
Eight years later she still lives in Forcalquier, though in somewhat more comfortable quarters. Still painting and now writing poetry in French, albeit with a limp or hint of the foreigner for added charm.
©Gaye Thavisin 1999