Mt John Roberts: In a Gammon Gorge
Walked May 2024, Posted Sunday 17th November 2024
Last night I got into the tent an hour after sunset. I could hear bats squeaking and the gentle sound of the breeze coming down the gorge. After a while the noises stopped, and it was utterly silent.
I took a long time to fall asleep. It was a cool night, and although I was using my sleeping bag as a quilt, I was plenty warm enough. While I lay awake I could see the stars sparkling through the thin fabric of the tent inner.
During the night there were a few noises that broke the silence: occasional stones clattered down into the gorge, and there were a few animal sounds. The two seemed related, as those stones probably didn’t fall by themselves.
We rose just after sunrise and packed up our gear. The sun was striking the upper rim of the gorge walls, but it was still dark down where we were. I poured out enough water for breakfast, then headed back into the chasm to top up our supply. Our next camp was almost certain to be dry and the one after that was dubious, so we had to carry enough water for at least the next two days. Including our drinking water, we’d be carrying nearly 15 litres between us today.
Our campsite remained in the shade until well after we’d left.
I swarmed up the log ladder to reach the rock pool. I could hear the croaking of froglets1 hidden somewhere between the rocks. I hadn’t noticed them yesterday. Perhaps they were guarding their brood, as there were tadpoles in the water. I felt a little bad taking some of their precious water, but it would soon be replenished from the seep.
The small rock pool where I filled up with water for the next two days.
I filtered the water as I collected it since it was of unknown quality. That turned out to be a struggle: the filter had performed well at home, but here it immediately dropped to about half the flow rate, despite the water being clear and free of sediment.
Back at camp it was time for breakfast, a simple affair of muesli bars and a hot drink. While we ate I boiled up another billy of water for a thermos of tea: a pleasant luxury when out walking.
I made another quick trip up to the rock pool to fill everything to the brim, then we were ready to set off. My pack was around 28 kg, which getting close to half my body weight. The hardest part was getting it on my back — after that I was relatively fine.
My aim for the day was to climb Mt John Roberts, then drop down to camp at the junction of North Branch Italowie Creek and Wildflower Creek. There were two options for leaving our gorge, and it was time to choose. One option was to head up the gorge a little further, then scale a gully beside a waterfall. The other, which seemed more favoured, was to climb the steep gully directly across from our campsite. I hadn’t had time to scout around last night, so I surveyed the options now and chose the gully opposite.
The climb up the gully was extremely steep, with some near-vertical rock scrambling. With a daypack it wouldn’t have been a problem, but with the loads we were carrying it was very hard work. I managed the climb with my pack on, taking great care to keep my weight forward — I know how hard a pack can pull you backwards if you overbalance even slightly.
The dark entry to Bunyip Chasm in the gorge wall behind us.
LS struggled to climb with the weight of her pack, so I hauled it up on a rope. The one I’d brought was strong enough for the weight, but as it was rather thin it cut into my hand painfully2. It was just as well I could climb with my pack, as mine would have been much worse to haul.
At the top of the gully we took a break to recover from the steep ascent, making use of the shade while we could. Soon we’d be working hard in the full sun.
The climb continued very steeply on loose, rocky ground. I quickly learned to avoid using any of the vegetation for handholds, as most of it was covered in prickles. Speaking of which, I also found my first patches of porcupine grass, best visualized as a big ball of needles.
LS climbing out of the Balcanoona Creek gorge: the worst is behind us.
Porcupine grass.
Behind us the gorge remained deep in shadow, almost as if the night still clung on there. Bunyip Chasm was a dark, ominous gap in the gorge wall.
I led us up beside a low wall of rock towards the crest of the spur ahead. I found a couple of small cairns, which provided encouragement that I wasn’t the first to chose this route. LS was struggling with the climb, continuing to walk on all fours even when standing upright was safe.
Having reached the ridgetop, I felt that at last I’d escaped the claustrophobia of the gorge. I made the most of the views while waiting for LS to catch up. Though the gorge had sunk out of sight, concealing both last night’s camp and our route in yesterday, I could now appreciate just how deep it was, and how tall the surrounding peaks were. To the southeast, framed by the ridges, were rows of colourful low hills.
Escaping the gorge.
The view to the southeast. The grey spots on the near slope are porcupine grass.
The climb continued steeply up the ridge. The ground was covered in shattered rock. As I passed the mounds of porcupine grass, grasshoppers erupted out and flew off. Pines and grass trees gradually gave way to mallee and low scrub as we gained elevation. The mallee was tough and scratchy, so I sought open rocky leads to avoid it where I could.
We reached a pleasant little grove of pines on the edge of a cliff, ideal for our morning tea. From where we sat I could trace the cliff line up to Steadman Ridge3 and round to the summit of Mt John Roberts. The peak looked tantalizingly close, and only a little higher.
We had morning tea perched on the edge of the cliffs.
Looking out to the colourful hills, with the white stripe of Lake Frome on the horizon.
Less than half an hour later we’d reached the summit4. The highest point was marked by a small cairn, and nearby were a couple of cleared spaces where people had camped. To the south there was another hill about a kilometre away. Behind that was Mt McKinlay Bluff, its orange-brown cliffs scarred by a landslide. But the sight that drew my eye was Cleft Peak5 to the right, the source of its name obvious with the summit split by a deep gash. I’d wanted to visit it for a long time, so to stand here and see it in real life was wonderful.
Lunchtime at the summit.
Out to the east, over the cliffs in front of us, was row after row of the low hills we’d seen before, now in full view. Their eroded shapes had a range of colours: earthy shades of greys, browns, olives, dull oranges and purples. Above them on the horizon was the bright white salt pan of Lake Frome.
While we ate lunch I checked my phone and was surprised to have one bar of 4G signal6, so I sent a triumphant message back home. We had a decent rest to recover from the morning’s hard work, but I didn’t want to stay too long. It was well past noon, and our intended camp was still a fair distance away. Though the walk was mainly downhill, it would no doubt be slow going due to the rough terrain.
We dropped off the southern side of the peak, disturbing a small family of goats who then watched us suspiciously. It can be a little disconcerting encountering a bunch of wild animals, especially when they’ve got horns on their heads, but we were content to leave each other alone.
Mt McKinlay Bluff. Below it is the yellow ridge that we’d follow down to our camp.
The bare landscape made navigation easy, and I could see the long yellow ridge we needed to take heading off to the right… though it didn’t seem to be quite the right place. Between us and it there was the hill I’d seen from back on the summit. While we could sidle it to save distance, I decided to go over the top to avoid walking on its side slopes.
I was very glad I made that decision. Upon reaching the cairn at the top of the hill I found a metal case containing a log book that identified this peak as Mt John Roberts! Checking the map confirmed it: although the other peak was about 25 metres higher, this was actually the peak that bore the name. We took a short break to read through the messages in the book before continuing.
At the true summit of Mt John Roberts.
A little way down the ridge we got a fantastic view past the cliffs.
Almost every pine along the ridge was dead. It was a sad sight: it must have been quite pretty when they were alive. But even dead they had a stark, sculptural beauty that fitted the harsh landscape.
Progress down the ridge was slow as the ground was rough and very rocky, and demanded care. I paused to wait for LS. The low autumn light brought out the shape of the land, the countless ridges and gullies that radiated out from the surrounding peaks. The sparse vegetation softened the shapes, but did not obscure them, leaving visible the old bones of the landscape.
Beginning the descent of the yellow ridge. Cleft Peak is directly above me.
On the horizon is Mt McKinlay Bluff, Mt McKinlay, and Cleft Peak. The patch of green near the centre is our intended campsite.
As we dropped lower I could make out a route down the ridge to the valley floor. The line of the North Branch Italowie Creek was thick with red gums and pines, their green leaves contrasting with the dull orange earth. Where the ridge forked I stayed left, aiming for where Wildflower Creek joined the main creek from the far side.
The ridge got steeper with a few small rocky cliffs, then forked again. There wasn’t a lot to choose between the forks, but I chose left again since it looked to come out closer to where I wanted.
The ridge got rougher as we descended.
Nearing the floor of the North Branch Italowie Creek valley.
The tail end of the ridge became rougher, making it difficult for us with our heavy loads. An animal pad led off the side and sidled down to the valley floor. I decided to trust the good sense of the animals that made it and followed that instead.
We walked the short distance over to the creek and dropped our packs. LS had had enough and just wanted a campsite, so while she rested I went off alone to scout around.
The dry creek bed near our campsite.
The valley gave the impression of an oasis compared to the higher elevations. Mighty red gums and healthy pines provided shade, their greenness a welcome sight. But every step I took crunched dead leaves, bark, and sticks. The earth was dry and loose, and the creek was likewise bone dry.
I crossed to the other side of the creek. It didn’t appeal to me as a campsite, though I did find where Wildflower Creek came in. Crossing back, I walked upstream — and blundered straight into a giant spiderweb that looked like it belonged in Mirkwood.
The web was a couple of metres across. It had depth too: it wasn’t just a flat web like small spiders spin, but rather a thick net of threads around the main web. The individual strands were strong and sticky. I backed off and let the spider be7. I paid more attention to where I was going, as there were more of these huge webs strung between the trees.
I found a good campsite, then continued my scouting to locate the waterhole. The creek bed leading up to it was surprisingly deep, as was the waterhole itself. It looked weird, with the conglomerate rock walls appearing as though the stones had been cemented together.
The waterhole was dry, as I’d expected. I’d hoped against reason that it might contain water, but given the conditions that was never likely8. It brought home the reality of hiking in country like this, and I was glad I’d prepared properly for the contingency.
The creek was particularly deep below the waterhole.
The afternoon was running out, and we needed to get our camp set up. I returned to LS and we brought our packs back to campsite I’d selected. We set up the tent inner, again held down with rocks instead of pegs. We both built porches outside our respective doors of the tent using stones and large sheets of bark we found on the ground. They proved to be very convenient when getting in or out of the tent, and we did the same at each remaining camp, getting more elaborate each time.
We chose a place to cook with logs to sit on, and I made dinner. Tonight it was soup and couscous — a meal neither of us particularly like, but it’s economical with water. I finished with a coffee, just on sunset. LS preferred to use her water ration to wash her face. She seemed to have cheered up.
The contrail of a jet left a line across the sky. It was the only sign of the outside world we’d seen. I’d never been anywhere so remote or quiet before. This felt like a true wilderness: a landscape in its natural state, virtually untracked, and with no concessions to those who enter.
I sat up for a while before getting in the tent, writing my day’s notes. The setting sun lit the surrounding peaks. Night fell quickly. With the dark came the squeaking of bats again. I wondered what they ate since I’d seen few insects besides the grasshoppers.
The setting moon at our campsite.
I thought about our situation. I had to find water tomorrow, or the walk would have to be aborted. All my hope rested on Rover Rockhole. The ranger back at Balcanoona had seemed confident about the water at Bunyip Chasm, which turned out to be less than a trickle, but had been unsure about Rover. It wasn’t encouraging.
My headlamp picked up something on a rock, a brilliant crystal-white spot that slid slowly down to the ground like a luminescent liquid. Intrigued, I went to investigate, and found a small spider with very reflective eyes.
I went to bed, troubled by thoughts about tomorrow.
Continue to Part 3: Rover Rockhole
Footnotes
- Although I didn’t see the frogs, I believe they were the Northern Flinders Ranges Froglet (Crinia flindersensis). ↩
- I’ve subsequently replaced the rope with a flat tape — a little heavier, but much easier on the hand. ↩
- Steadman Ridge was named after Fred Steadman, who was a member of C. Warren Bonython’s unsuccessful 1946 attempt to cross the Gammon Ranges. Crocker Saddle (formerly Crocker’s Gap) was named after the third member of the party, Bob Crocker, who broke his leg in the vicinity. See Bonython, C. Warren (1974). Walking the Flinders Ranges. Rigby. p 127-128. ISBN 0851792863. ↩
- This was the highest point of the walk at 872 metres. ↩
- Cleft Peak is one of many features in the Gammons that was named by C. Warren Bonython. He also named Prow Point, Centre Hill, North and South Tusk, Mt Changeweather, and Four Winds Hill. See Bonython, C. Warren (1974). Walking the Flinders Ranges. Rigby. p 128, 132, 134, 146-147. ISBN 0851792863. ↩
- The phone service was most likely from the Telstra tower at Wertaloona. ↩
- Golden Orb Weaving Spiders (Nephila edulis). ↩
- The likelihood of finding water here is only about 40%. See: Heard, Adrian (1990). A Walking Guide to the Northern Flinders Ranges. State Publishing. p 22. ISBN 0724365745. ↩
