Mt Jackson, a tale of woe and jelly snakes

With Marmot Man (Greg) and Ann.

Mt Jackson beamed white over our camp daily and beckoned us from the summit of Hut Peak (the dominant peak to the left of the photo). Marmot Man and I had been waiting for a window to make the attempt. Unfortunately, a 36 hour torrential downpour dumped 18 inches on us. Creeks sprang up and trummeled around our tents, through our camp kitchen - and swamped the fabric homes of poor Rob, Penny, Matt, Bill, Dave and countless others.

The flood. © Greg Robinson 2004

Our only chance presented itself on the day before the close of the camp.

Whilst the camp slept in anticipation of warm beds at home, Marmot Man, Ann and I readied ourselves with a pot of gluggy chicken soup. This contained massive lumps of unmixed powder which I somehow concocted whilst half asleep. I hate alpine starts. After stumbling in my plastics around a dark and sleepy Elcho hut to find the Intentions Book (trying not to wake those whose tents had been washed away), we headed into the pitch black beech forest towards Elcho swing bridge.

Now I remember why I must get a more powerful headlamp: the feeble LEDs in the headlamps of Marmot Man and Macpac Man were no match for Ann's swanky new Petzl with the xenon bulb for route finding and LED's for around camp. Somehow we bumbled through the woods without tripping on our feet. But that's about as far as the smooth ride was to go today.

Stream crossing in the dark is fun at the best of times. After 36 hours of biblical floods it gets really interesting. Not only had the Elcho burst its banks, all of its many tributaries were dumping gallons of water across our path at every opportunity. Our way along the stream was constantly blocked by high water levels forcing us to sidle up the steep, rocky and slide-prone banks in the dark, in plastic boots, whilst half asleep. When the rocks were passed, the trees began, and we bush-bashed our way, sidling up steep, overgrown, tangled banks in the dark, in plastic boots, our packs catching on the vegetation and threatening to topple us down the slope into the river as we chewed jelly snakes for breakfast. Oh what a fun start to the day.

After what seemed like an eternity, we somehow emerged exhausted beside the swing bridge, considerably more than an hour behind schedule. By this time the sun was already finding its way up behind the Dasler Pinnacles in a fiery display back down the Elcho Valley and across the Hopkins River. I bit the head off another jelly snake and took a photo or two.

I love watching the water rush beneath my feet as I trundle across swing bridges. Today I couldn't help but wish there was just a tad less of the stuff. The North Elcho was no less damp than the earlier section. Waterfalls gushed from the rock sides as we slipped and slid our way towards the Elcho Glacier. The North Elcho itself was an uncrossable torrent, hardly a "stream". In places, the din as the water blasted its way across the boulders was deafening and impossible to shout above.

Our arrival at the glacier snout was something of a relief. The day was now well advanced, as was the cloud layer which completely obscured the summit of Mt. Jackson or our secondary target and its closer neighbour, Mt Hickson. At least the glacier was clear of cloud.

We donned crampons and left the roaring of the meltwater cave behind us. The ice was solid underfoot and the upwards plodding a relief after stumbling about on the Elcho's scree-covered banks for so many hours. Marmot Man seemed intent on plugging the most steps as the snow deposited a few days ago thickened. A sterling job! Ann and Macpac Man took their turns and did their share but Marmot Man always returned to the front to continue the task.

Some two hours of plodding later and the end of the glacier was in sight. The slope now kicked for the sky into a vertical wall of snow and ice, corniced in some places but quite passable. A request for a rope came from the ranks and Marmot Man, who had so kindly plugged steps, then offered the lead to Macpac Man. Now that is surely the kindest thing a climbing buddy can do!

A small amount of faffing ensued before Macpac Man was on his way skywards, the yellow snake in tow, the jangly snow stakes banging into his knees, another jelly snake in his tummy.

I popped my head over the ridge and had my firmly anchored helmet blasted by the gale. Stumbling against the wind and over the edge I gasped for air as the weather forced its icy fingers down my throat. Not the kind of welcome I desired but one for which I was prepared. I struggled back from the cornice and took a moment to fetch the fat clothing from my pack: Dachstein mitts I bought for a song in Austria stuffed into water-proof shells. On went the hood of my jacket as I fumbled with the ropes in the wind. I hammered in a stake and buried an axe for a belay.

Shouting above the wind was a joke but I may have heard somebody shout back at me, "Climbing!" The rope seemed to be coming up so I pulled it in. Without fuss a smiley Ann and then a smiley Marmot Man appeared and joined me on the ridge.

Lunch was a chilly affair - pita and tuna for Marmot Man and Macpac Man of course. Dessert was, you guessed it, jelly snakes! The view back down the valley remained clear whenever we were game enough to leave our sheltered picnic spot and peer back down the slope. The view in the direction of the Landsborough was non-existent. In fact, even the other side of the glacier was obscured. Mt's Jackson and Hickson may as well have been on another planet. Their summits wouldn't be trodden under our boots today.

Marmot Man and Ann rappel over the lip on a sturdy stake, pounded into the ice. Macpac Man stands for a second contemplating the plummet beneath him as the wind blasts him in the face. He turns, lifts the anchor and downclimbs whilst Marmot Man belays him from below. There is no use leaving behind a perfectly good anchor! Macpac Man is too skint to rappel leaving gear behind.

The trip back down the glacier was made all the more amusing by the buffets the wind unleashed in an attempt to throw us off our feet and back up the slope as we skated and glissaded our way towards the valley floor.

As we resumed our clumsy travels along the stream bed we ran into Peter and Jo on their way for a "look see". Peter had driven his 4WD down the Hopkins prior to the flood and had then become stuck out of camp until the waters subsided this afternoon. With him was stuck our food re-supply and, worst of all, our beer! Nooooh! Not the beer! Argh. Now that he had risked life and limb and fried the electrics in his vehicle to make it back to camp at least we'd have an alcholic welcome upon our return to the tents.

The trek back along the valley was much easier than the inward journey. The water had subsided by more than a metre, it was daylight and we knew where we were going. We had run out of jelly snakes and resorted to munching jelly babies.

Three weary climbers stumbled into an expectant camp more than fifteen hours after their departure. Sadly, we had to report that the rumours were false. We hadn't been able to see the summit of Mt. Jackson let alone reach it. Maybe we'll come back up here again, it still seems like a peak worth topping.

Oh, and I heard that Dave Bamford and John Nankervis didn't summit Hut Peak on this day. I only mention this to get back at John for "hoping" Macpac Man, Marmot Man and Ann didn't make the summit of Jackson so that they would have a valid excuse themselves! *GRIN* Better luck next time guys, we 've already ticked Hut Peak! I do of course suspect that with your level of climbing expertise (which vastly surpasses ours) had you wanted to continue I'm sure you would have managed somehow.