Winter Ascent: Snow on Ben Lomond

Morning light eventually penetrated the boys' tents, their stirring movements announcing transition from sleep to wakefulness. After a leisurely breakfast and unhurried packing ritual, we contemplated the day's possibilities. During previous conversations, Torrin and Shea had expressed keen interest in experiencing Tasmania's highland landscapes on foot—that particular magic that reveals itself only to those willing to venture beyond vehicular convenience. Anth immediately recognised perfect opportunity in Ben Lomond's looming presence—that magnificent dolerite mountain less than an hour's drive from our current position, where we had previously camped and hiked during warmer seasons.

Our initial plan formed around conventional wisdom—drive to the National Park campground, establish comfortable base, then undertake the summit hike on the following day. However, as we approached the mountain around midday, Tasmania delivered one of its meteorological gifts: a spectacularly clear winter day with just the faintest wisps of cloud clinging to the plateau's edge like hesitant thought bubbles. Such perfect conditions demanded immediate response rather than deferred gratification.

"What do you think about hiking today instead?" Anth suggested, pointing toward the remarkably clear summit. "Weather like this doesn't happen often in Tasmanian winter."

The boys' enthusiastic agreement sealed our revised plan. Rather than stopping at the familiar campground, Anth continued driving upward to Carr-Villa—that established trailhead from which we had previously commenced our summit journey during autumn's more forgiving climate. As we pulled into the parking area, patches of snow became visible along the plateau's distant edge, their white brilliance contrasting dramatically against dark rock. This tantalising glimpse of alpine winter triggered immediate excitement among our small expedition party.

We prepared with appropriate respect for Tasmania's notoriously changeable mountain conditions—additional layers packed, water bottles filled, energy-dense snacks distributed between three backpacks. A quick meal fortified us for the journey ahead before we locked the bus and set foot on the ascending trail, each step carrying us from everyday experience toward alpine exception.

The initial path followed familiar contours through eucalyptus forest, gradually steepening as it approached the dolerite columns that formed natural ramparts around the plateau's edge. An unexpected sensory dimension soon revealed itself—beneath the rocks supporting our ascending steps, we could hear water surging through hidden channels, the mountain's internal hydrology creating an unseen river beneath our feet. This subterranean soundtrack accompanied our climb through increasingly dramatic terrain, the vegetation gradually shifting from woodland to alpine scrub as elevation increased.

Where the trail had previously offered firm footing, transformation had occurred with winter's touch. Small rivulets that had merely dampened the path during our autumn ascent now displayed nature's thermodynamic artistry—patches of ice forming crystalline sculptures along edges, tiny snow deposits gathering in shadows where direct sunlight never reached. These initial hints of winter's domain fuelled our anticipation, each frozen formation promising greater wonders ahead.

"Have you ever hiked through snow before?" Anth asked, noting the boys' fascination with these modest ice formations.

"Only that one time in Japan," Torrin replied, "but nothing like this—not on a mountain this open."

The higher we climbed, the more comprehensively winter had claimed the landscape. What began as scattered patches gradually transformed into consistent white carpet stretching across the plateau, transforming familiar terrain into something otherworldly. The track we had previously followed through rock and vegetation now existed as compressed depression in pristine snow—visible not through distinct marking but through subtle topographical variation that required constant attention to follow.

This winterscape represented precisely what we had imagined during our autumn ascent months earlier, when we had speculated about the plateau's transformation under snowfall. Though Sal's absence meant she couldn't share this realised vision, witnessing Torrin and Shea's wonder at this alpine immersion provided different yet equally profound satisfaction. Their expressions—a mixture of childlike fascination and adult appreciation—mirrored perfectly what we had always hoped sharing Tasmania might inspire.

We progressed past the aptly named Misery Bluff—its foreboding title belied today by spectacular clarity and calm conditions—and across the plateau's undulating white expanse. Eventually, our ultimate destination revealed itself on the horizon: Legges Tor, Tasmania's second-highest peak, its distinctive profile unmistakable even when partially snow-covered. This final approach across open snowfield provided perhaps the journey's most magical passage—virgin snow crunching beneath our boots, vast whiteness extending in all directions, absolute silence except for our breathing and footfalls.

Upon reaching the summit cairn, we were rewarded with that particular expansiveness that mountains uniquely offer—perspective impossible to achieve through any means except physical elevation. To the north stretched Bass Strait, its waters connecting Tasmania to mainland Australia across sometimes treacherous passage. Eastward lay the Tasman Sea extending beyond visible horizon toward New Zealand, while westward the Central Plateau spread its magnificent wilderness toward distant horizons. This three-hundred-and-sixty-degree panorama represented Tasmania's diversity condensed into single viewpoint—ocean, forest, mountain, and plain all visible from one extraordinary vantage.

As we absorbed this magnificent perspective, weather conditions reminded us of their capricious nature. Wind strengthened noticeably, its invisible fingers finding every inadequately secured layer of clothing. Simultaneously, the westering sun signaled afternoon's advancement toward evening—its angle diminishing by perceptible degrees as we watched. These developments prompted practical response—additional clothing layers emerged from backpacks, windproof shells zipped to collars, gloves covering previously exposed hands. After consuming energy-replenishing snacks while huddled among summit rocks for minimal protection, we reluctantly commenced our descent, cognizant of diminishing daylight.

The return journey demanded different attentiveness than our ascent—ice that had remained solid in shadow now carried treacherous slickness as afternoon temperatures fluctuated. Despite careful foot placement, each of us experienced at least one sudden connection with terra firma, resulting in unexpected immersion in frigid puddles hidden beneath deceptive snow bridges. These momentary discomforts merely added texture to the adventure, providing anecdotal material that would eventually transform from inconvenience to amusing memory.

As we approached the plateau's edge where steep descent awaited, nature delivered its masterpiece finale. The setting sun, moments from disappearing behind distant mountains, ignited the western sky in spectacular conflagration of color—crimson, amber, and violet streaking across clouds in patterns that defied both description and photography. Our small party halted simultaneously without verbal communication, stood in spontaneous reverence before this atmospheric performance. Some experiences require nothing but witness, and this extraordinary sunset demanded nothing beyond our silent appreciation.

With darkness advancing rapidly across the landscape, headlamps emerged from backpacks, their beams creating narrow corridors of visibility through increasing gloom. The steep descent from plateau to foothills—challenging even in daylight—required heightened concentration under these conditions. We moved in silent coordination, each focused entirely on immediate surroundings, the boys displaying impressive surefootedness despite their limited experience on such terrain.

Our bus eventually materialized in headlamp beams like welcome apparition, its golden exterior reflecting artificial light with homecoming warmth. Rather than proceeding to the intended campground several kilometers distant, unanimous agreement formed around simplest solution—the trailhead's level parking area would serve perfectly as our overnight sanctuary. Tired muscles appreciated this decision, eliminating unnecessary movement in favor of immediate rest and reflection.

As we settled into evening routine—rehydrating, nourishing, sharing observations from our alpine adventure—the magnificence of the experience crystallized in our shared consciousness. This unplanned winter ascent had delivered precisely the authentic Tasmanian experience we had hoped the boys might encounter—challenging yet accessible, magnificent yet intimate, predictable in broad outline yet filled with unexpected discoveries. Though Sal's absence left particular emptiness, knowing she would return to hear firsthand accounts from multiple perspectives provided some consolation.

Beyond its immediate pleasures, this day represented something more profound about our nomadic existence—the capacity to respond immediately to opportunity, to rewrite plans when conditions suggested better alternatives, to embrace unpredictability not as inconvenience but as invitation. As sleep claimed our exhausted bodies, the mountain stood silent guardian over our temporary dwelling, snow continuing its slow metamorphosis in darkness while we dreamed beneath the same stars visible from both plateau and plain.Read more