Mount Something

We are alone anchored in Bramble Cove in the south west of Tasmania and directly behind and above us is an imposing five hundred meter high mountain of craggy white rock. Our map says its name is Mount Stokes but the marine charts talk of Mount Misery. The pilot book can not decide and shows both. The aborigines certainly used another name before their eradication. It is irrelevant what it is really named, it is impressive under any name.

Imagine it is a warm dry day in late autumn and there is a beautiful mountain offering panoramic views across an island speckled ocean, a landscape of inlets and bays, and never ending mountain ridges. Imagine that a tiny, steep, overgrown path leads from a lonely beach to the rocky summit. And now imagine that the entire day this mountain is climbed by only two people. And imagine that from the summit there are no villages, no houses and not even a wall to be seen. No sign of civilisation impinges on the majestic view except the tiny sailing boat that the two call home, anchored almost five hundred meters below them.

We no longer need to imagine.

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