Spring at Cascadia

Some flowers appeared

on the magnolia tree

in our backyard,

signalling spring.

There was a branch

on this tree, taller

than the rest,

with three flowerbuds.

Before they had

a chance to open,

I found the branch

on the ground, broken.

I blamed the possum,

but the truth is,

I didn’t actually

know who the culprit was.

My housemates were

grateful for the possum

or whatever devious

creature broke the branch.

Now, we have a

magnolia branch

in flower, to brighten

the dining room.

I wonder still,

What kind of life

is it for an open flower

to never feel the wind?

A.S. 3/9/20, South Hobart

Collective Wisdom

In this age of science and reason, the idea of wisdom appears to be losing significance.

Flowering Scoparia, Central Highlands. 2019, Pentax MX, Portra 400.

 Wisdom is a difficult quality to pin down, and it takes a long time to acquire. One might say that wisdom is an accumulation of knowledge and experience. Being wise implies understanding the nuances of the world we inhabit. A wise teacher is one who teaches us what we need to know, rather than what we want to know.

Humanity has acquired a considerable amount of accumulated knowledge over the aeons, most of which has been forgotten. The burning down of the great library of Alexandria in ancient times and the disappearing of our languages and traditional cultures in the current time are both testaments to this. We learn stuff, and then we forget stuff. That’s kind of how it goes.

Our collective understanding of the world we live in has grown. This doesn’t mean that we should confuse information with understanding. Having access to more data and supercomputers doesn’t make us any wiser. But it does equip us with some powerful tools. Which if used wisely, could be to our great benefit, and alternatively, if used foolishly, to our great detriment.

Lichen colony on dolerite boulder, Central Highlands. 2019, Pentax MX, Portra 400.

While we may perceive wisdom as an inherently human quality, it can also be found in nature. Each living being has its own accumulated experience which has been passed down to it from its ancestors.

How does a plant know when to flower? How do the welcome swallows find their way back to the same nest each year, and always in the first week of September? How do the cicadas know to rise out of the ground at the same time to overwhelm predators with their numbers?

Unnamed lake in Central Highlands. 2019, Pentax MX Portra 400

Collective wisdom isn’t merely human; it is the accumulated experience and knowledge all around us. We can learn from a tree, we can learn from a rock, from a river and from a bird. It takes careful observation, and stillness. If we madly dash from one event to the next, knowledge has no way to accumulate. If we rush, wisdom is exiled to the fringes, to the peripheries.

Wisdom is all around us, waiting to be discovered.

Fluidity

I’ve been hearing a lot of statements lately that are of the loose structure ‘we must do x, y, z so that things can return to normal’. There appears to be a strong sentiment in our global community, that if we do all the right things to be ‘safe’, we will be able to return to our way of life before the pandemic began. We are led to believe that somehow, this pandemic is a little blip on the ever increasing curve of our expanding economy. And the underlying assumption that goes unchallenged is that our economy must continue to grow. If only we can tame this deadly virus, we will be able to return to doing all the things that we have gotten so used to doing.

The way I see it, if we ‘return to normal’, we would be returning to a system of doing things that is killing the planet, one species at a time. If we return to normal, we are setting ourselves on the trajectory of our own extinction in a much shorter time frame than most of us care to imagine. The evidence is irrefutable; the way of life we have developed is killing the planet and killing ourselves with it. Yet for some strange reason, we take comfort in our way of life that we have grown accustomed to.

The mountains is where most of our drinking water hits the earth as rain. The water then collects in the valleys, forming streams which increase in flow the further they go. 2018, Pentax MX, Kodak Portra 400.

The idea of change, even if it was in our own benefit is difficult to accept if it means giving up the things that we care about. And that’s the challenge. If we realise that doing our favourite things is taking the choice of existence away from future generations, do we continue to do our favourite things or do we find some new favourite things to do that are less destructive?  

I find that most people don’t like this line of inquiry, because it depresses them. The idea of being a contributor to a mass extinction is confronting and difficult to accept. Yet it is the truth. We are all responsible. If we have a job, if we drive a car, if we want to build a house, if we want to eat food that is grown through agriculture, we all contribute to this delicious mess that we are in. So let’s not shy away from this conversation; let’s embrace it, nut it out and deal with it. What the heck can we do?

Eventually, the rainwater collected this way forms our major rivers, carrying freshwater to the sea. 2018, Pentax MX, Kodak Portra 400.

People much smarter than me have written many books on the subject. I don’t pretend to know what the answer is. But if I’ve learnt one thing during my 33 rounds around the sun, it is this: one way or another, nature will show us the way. And whether we like it or not, we must exist as part of the natural systems dictated by our planet. We may believe in the possibility of exponential growth, but our planet has boundaries, outside of which lies deep, cold space.

Valley mist under morning light. 2018, Pentax MX, Portra 400.

If we wish to learn from nature, from where we spring and to where we return, we must learn to be fluid, for within water lies the secret of life. We can no longer afford to hold an idealistic view on life; if we insist on holding true to our collective vision, the same vision that has shaped the 20th century; we will become the water getting sucked down the drain.

Instead, we must learn to become the great flowing river, which collects in the mountains and flows toward the sea. It seeks the path of least resistance, and lets gravity guide it where it needs to go. It doesn’t fight the forces of nature, it doesn’t try to flow uphill; it is steady in its intention.

If we pay attention, water will show us the way out of this enormous pickling jar we have got ourselves in.

Alpine mushroom in cushion plant colony. 2018, Pentax MX, Kodak Portra 400.

Beyond the mountain...

… lies the land of trees and moss.

‘Mossy Trees’, Feb 2019, Pentax MX, Triax 400,

By its nature, a mountain can provide a view but it can just as easily block the view. If we stand on top of a mountain, the world may unfold before our feet, but if we stand at the bottom of a mountain, our view is obscured and we are left wondering what may be on the other side.

Mountains can act either as an opportunity or as a barrier. They can grant us new perspectives, or stop us from reaching new ones. On one side of a mountain range we may find something we cannot find on the other side. Partially, this is because mountains make their own climate, and conditions for life may be quite different to the other side, creating distinct flora, fauna and fungi communities. Some species may be unable to cross from one water catchment into another, creating specific genetic traits that are best suited to that particular micro climate or environment.

‘Tangled Terrain’ Feb 2019, Pentax MX, Triax 400.

In this day and age, it is hard for us to imagine not being able to cross natural boundaries. Collectively, as a species, we have been to the moon and back, down to the bottom of the deepest oceanic trench, and to the top of the tallest peak. It is now a routine (although rather expensive) exercise to summit Mt Everest, or to visit the South Pole. Within a single lifetime, our abilities to access difficult places has increased manifold. Yet it wasn’t that long ago that humans lived out most of their life within a single region of the earth, restricted to a relatively small locality.

‘Serpentine River’ 2018. Pentax MX, Triax 400.

Within the South-West wilderness of Tasmania, there would be endemic species of certain plants, animals and fungi that are restricted to a single water catchment area, having been unable to cross the steep and formidable ridges that rise up from the valleys.

Down where the rivers flow, the vegetation is thick and plentiful, but as elevation is gained, the rainforest gives way to buttongrass and the associated fire adapted eco-systems. This means that certain species are likely to remain within the same valley without ever crossing into an adjacent water catchment.

‘Quartzite ridgetop and the view down at the Pedder impoundment’, Pentax MX 2018, Triax 400.

The first taste of spring

In the temperate and often volatile climate of Tasmania, we tend to farewell winter with a sigh of relief. We feel gratitude as the long hours of darkness shorten and the sun begins to return a little more each day. The winter blues induced by being cooped up, lack of vitamin D and cold fingers and toes can really get to us. So when we see the first blossoms on the deciduous trees in our neighbourhood, we rejoice and celebrate the end of winter.

If one is familiar with the pattern of Tasmania’s climate, one will know that celebrating the end of winter in early September may very well be premature elation. There is a reason that folklore tells us not to plant our tomato seedlings in the garden until show day in late October.

Late winter, including August and September can bring some of the heaviest snowfalls in Tasmania.

Having grown up in the northern hemisphere, I always associate September with the falling of leaves and the start of school after the long summer holidays. Here in Tasmania, while September is the official start of spring, it is also one of the most unpredictable in terms of weather, especially in the mountains. It’s the month that brings the transition, and with this comes the wind. If August is the month of deep snow and the bitter end of winter, September is the gusty catalyst that will blow your favourite hat off and take it far away from you. Early spring is a juxtaposition of beautiful, warm, sunny days that promise summer around the corner, followed by torrential rain, and gale force winds. Snowfall is almost guaranteed in alpine areas about a kilometre above sea level, although this is becoming more rare.

The snow simply doesn’t stick around for as long as it used to. Deep snowdrifts in September used to be the norm, now they are the exception. If there is one melancholy thought about the end of winter, it is this; we may very well see snow disappear from Tasmania within a single lifetime.

Warm, sunny days doesn’t mean the ocean is any warmer all of a sudden, but going for a swim does become a lot more tempting.

But let’s talk about spring, for it is upon us. Even if it slaps us across the face with an unexpected thunderstorm, it is so wonderful. It is the beginning of a new cycle, and ‘…at the beginning is balance, at the beginning is essence.’ Spring is an opportunity to start things afresh, to heal old wounds and to refresh our perspectives. It is the time of awakening to our ongoing existence. It is a time to pay attention to our senses, to catch a whiff of those blooming flowers, and to observe nature as she hustles and bustles about. It is a time of productivity, youthful energy and wonderful opportunities.

Go on, stick your nose in it! Smell the flowers! Just don’t get stung by a bee.

Many households around the world observe the tradition of the ‘spring clean’. Some may dread it, others will embrace it, but unwittingly, most of us practice it in some shape or another. Now is the time to dust off those cobwebs, although not all of them, as the spiders need a home too. Dust accumulates, and if there is ever a good time to rid our houses of it, it is now. It’s time to rethink, to restart and to revitalise. We can’t let a pandemic stop us from appreciating the return of the sun and all its connotations as it brings its influence back into our lives. We must embrace the changing of the seasons and everything that this change brings with it.

What does spring mean for you?

On a bus going nowhere…

There are times in life when we are stuck in a rut, when no matter how hard we seem to try, winning any progress at all appears overwhelmingly difficult. It might come down to a series of habits which we know are bad for us but we somehow continue to persevere in their daily practice, or we may be surrounded by people who resonate on different wavelengths to us. We may feel depressed at the state of the world, and the impending doom that media channels promise us is coming very, very soon. We feel helpless to change our circumstances and having any positive outlook on life seems ludicrous. We feel stuck on the metaphorical bus going nowhere.

‘The Bus Going Nowhere'‘, 2018. Pentax MX, Triax 400.

Now, the first thing that needs to be acknowledged about this scenario is that our situation may not be quite as desperate as it seems at first. While we may not want to be on this stationary bus, there are advantages to staying still for some time. If there is no destination, no outcome, there is no pressure, expectation or urgency. If there is no schedule, we cannot be late. If the bus isn’t moving, it doesn’t need fuel. Instead of rushing through the world, in a desperate hurry to arrive to our next appointment, we can simply remain on this bus, for as long as we wish, and observe the world. We can be the idle flaneur, with nothing better to do than simply take everything in.

After some time however, when we have well and truly convinced ourselves that this bus is definitely not going anywhere, we may be ready to take the next step. This is the realisation that it might be time to get off the bus and start walking somewhere. Anywhere.

‘Pencil Pines in the Walls’, 2019. Pentax MX, Triax 400.

I have found walking the most reliable way of transport available. So far, it has gotten me exactly where I have needed to go. Every time. Without fail. It may not be a fast way of getting around, but it is very dependable. I recently chatted to someone who walked the Three Capes track, on crutches, with a 28kg pack. He had a great time. Really, he did. Although he may chose to take less weight on his next hike.

‘The Sermon Seat’, 2018. Pentax MX, Triax 400.

My point is, even when it is difficult, walking is worthwhile. Part of the reason is that we are allowing the world to come at us at a pace in which we can comfortably process it. Walking gets us where we need to go. And in the process, we are able to observe all the subtle ways in which our surroundings change. They never quite stay the same, even when change is imperceptible.

Glacial valley in the South West, 2018’. Pentax MX, Triax 400.

Welcome back to Mountains of Tasmania!

That’s right, Mountains of Tasmania is making a return! I figured I might as well keep a good thing going. Plus I really miss writing the posts. :)

For those of you that have followed my weekly blog posts throughout 2020 and 2021, thank you!

For newcomers, welcome!

Mountains of Tasmania is my personal blog, where I share analogue photography from the Tasmanian wilderness and stories of trips where not everything went to plan. There is also a healthy amount of philosophical musings and poetry from time to time.

Posts go out early Sunday morning, every week, so please subscribe if you haven’t already. Share with those you think may enjoy the posts and encourage others to subscribe.

Much gratitude.

-Andy Szollosi