“Cradle Mountain is a very special place for me. As a family we went to Cradle Mountain almost every year of my childhood – at a time when not many other people went there. It was a big part of our lives and it's where I first took photographs. I feel like we did more than just visit it – we lived it, before we went, while we were there and after we returned home.” ~ Pen Tayler
Cradle Mountain was old eons before the first humans saw it, which is perhaps why it weaves such rich images into the memories of Tasmanian children who visit it.
. . .
The first rays of the morning sun spread across the valley, lighting a small patch of mist as it rises from the ground. My hand runs along the frost on the button grass, touches the cold ice on the ponds, trails through the curling pandani fronds and dips into the cold water of the creek where we sometimes swam. I share a moment with a wallaby, startled by my approach before it turns and makes off across the icy plain.
My boots touch the forest floor, the soft spring of the mossy roots under step. The continuous murmur of the water fills the air while memories of the past filter through the trees, of family, friends and laughter. At the waterfall where we always stopped, the fagus leaves rest where they fell onto the moss, and the tree trunks twist and wind above the river, forming a canopy. The air smells rich – earthy and damp as it always has.
It’s not as it was though.
The rough timber on the side of the old shed holds its own memories, memories that vibrate across the cold, crisp air – my father moves the oars with ease. He grins at us, sitting between mum in our small white canvas lifejackets. Then he dips the oars into the dark, deep water, drawing it forward, pushing us further away from the shoreline towards the fine mist on the other side of the lake. In front of us, the mountain stands in its inexorable place. Once there was more than a kilometre of ice and snow on this land, a land of ancient forests, of lakes and mountains carved out by glaciers, thousands of years ago.
The tiny beach is empty. I crunch my way across the small strip of sand to the only patch of shelter under some overhanging branches. A few fallen leaves from the snow gums, float gently on the lake surface, inches from my feet. Now with a reddish tinge, and curled around themselves, they seem to come from another tree entirely. I sit on the beach threading my hands through the course white sand, watching the leaves, the pebbles worn smooth, the gentle movement of the tannin coloured water … the warmth of the campfire, the smell of the smoke, the old black billy sitting in the coals …
Remembering …
. . .
We are not the only ones now. Others try to crowd my memories, filling the air with their noise, chattering, their cameras constantly on the go as they view the scenery through a small rectangle.
I do my best to pretend they aren't there.
The rocks are cold and wet to my touch, the tracks run with water, saturating my boots, waterfalls cascade in a constant roar, leaves drip endlessly. A cloud hangs low over the edges of the plateau, hiding the lake that sits in the glacial dip. The colours surround me in waves of greens and yellows, and oranges and browns, made more vivid by the rain.
The forest fills my senses, mesmerising, holding me in its quiet place. Rotting logs crumble underfoot. The moss-covered trees are damp with moisture. The small creek, swollen with snow melt and excess rain, flows over the rocky river bed on its way to the lake. Memories jostle for space as I step gently on the mossy ground, through the trees. Together we scramble around in the river bed looking for suitable rocks to move into place. My brother runs to find some more. We rearrange them along the creek bed.
Now the river has used its own force to engineer a dam of logs and leaf litter eminently better than anything we created decades ago. Behind the dam, foam patterns make a spiral as the water is forced to find a new path. It trickles through gaps in the log jam, runs over the top of the leaf litter and spreads out around the trees.
A brief burst of sunshine gives way to a wind-driven sleet and mist that partially obscures the landscape and drenches my hands and face. The cold chills me to my bones. My hands shake as I try to grip my cup tightly to draw in its heat. The others have stayed away, put off by the weather and their desires for sunny memories, memories that will no doubt fade with time.
But this is just how I want it to be and I hold my memories close. Layer upon layer, they fold around me, taking me beyond the present to a distant past, inspiring, rebuilding, anchoring.
Pen Tayler is a Tasmanian writer and photographer. She photographed 12 towns for Towns of Tasmania, written by Bert Spinks, and has written and provided images for Hop Kilns of Tasmania. She is currently working on a book about Prospect and Belmont houses, Coal River Valley.
Pen Tayler can be contacted via her website, pentayler.com.
