Horizontal Hill, Falling Mountain, Castle Crag.

Angela on top of Horizontal, the Guardians behind

Horizontal Hill, Falling Mountain and Castle Crag. Mark first mooted the idea of climbing Horizontal Hill in the dead of last winter, when the nights were frozen and the days icy. I wanted to climb this too, but had decided reservations, for the route involves a 350ms wade through Lake Marion before you begin ascending. I thought about wearing my wetsuit, and meanwhile went and bought a pair of light, padded Wellingtons. I was not looking forward to the ordeal, but, as Malcolm Fraser said, "Life wasn't meant to be easy", and well, you take what comes in this business of trying to climb all the Abels.

Moody sunrise at Lake Marion

Luckily, on the appointed day, it was snowing, as well as icy and freezing, and we climbed Hobhouse instead. We waited for the next opportunity, but other mountains pushed the queue for one reason or another, until last weekend, when I noticed that, with a little rearrangement of several programmes, our old intrepid trio could climb this together before returning to our separate agendas. Now hyperthermia and dehydration could replace hypothermia - a much more comfortable way to damage your body.

View from Castle Crag, with Pelion East, Pillinger and Cathedral in the background

Now, the dreaded icy lake was a delightful warm bath. Padded Wellingtons were replaced by open crocs and the wetsuit allowed to continue gathering dust in the laundry. The wade was fun, even if I did keep sinking, and then we left the water behind to head upwards on bearing through rather lovely pandani forest, travelling towards the head of a pointy spur. Punishment for the unexpected ease here was the inevitable band of scoparia, but I have seen a lot worse and we swallowed our medicine and in under two hours were doing the last climb up a sandstone cliff to the summit area, to at last sit up there and eat and drink in the view as well as water.

Castle Crag summit cairn, with Ossa and Pelion East behind

Next morning, after a relaxed beach breakfast by the lake, Mark departed for a solo attempt (successful) on Tramontane, and we (Angela and I) set off for our next goals: Falling Mountain and Castle Crag. It was actually too hot to climb them that afternoon, so we got ourselves into position for an early assault in the coolness of the next morning. It was good we didn't go up that afternoon, as Angela was not feeling at all well, and the next day she found a tick on her body that we assume was the cause of the malaise.

Sunset at Narcissus Hut (Lake St Clair)

To climb Falling Mountain, our notes suggested we should head from our clearing below Du Cane Gap towards the rocks from the latest fall off the southern end of the mountain, so we did precisely that, departing that bearing when the bush got thicker than we liked, and so began heading right (north), climbing or contouring as the best leads through the scrub dictated (no longer using compass). Eventually this method took us to a wonderful lead of pineapple grass that made easy passage in a green path upwards to the final little climb that popped us out on top, much faster than anticipated in 1 hr 17 from our tents, drying down in the open clearing below. I photographed here, at the highest rock on this part of the mountain, five minutes away, and again at Castle Crag, a nine-minute saunter further on across alpine grasses and a bit of rock.

The route being described in the narrative

Rather than just retrace our footsteps, we agreed to try something different and just drop off Castle Crag. The boulders were surprisingly huge and the going not as kind as our original route, so we then sidled across to meet our ascent track. I was leading at this stage and concentrating on the job, using a kind of animal instinct that kicks in when I'm climbing, just following what some non-verbal part of my being feels is the way to go, sensing passages through the maze of rocks when one of the smaller (football size) rocks I trod on became dislodged and catapulted down the mountain, whacking my foot en passant. I writhed in pain, hyperventilating badly, vision blurred, dizzy with shock. Uncharacteristically, I reached for my pack to grab a painkiller. Whoops. They were in the big pack way down there. Angela's were in the same place. (At least my EPIRB was with me. At this stage, I didn't know if anything was broken, but found it hard to image that a blow of that force would not break something.)

"OK, no painkillers. We need to get moving quickly. If I'm to get through this, I need to start moving, and now. If I rest, I'll stiffen up and never budge from here."

Sunset stillness was rather spiffy

Cautiously, gingerly I put weight on the now swelling blob at the end of my leg and tucked in behind Angela, who was left with the job of choosing a route that would be kind to a one-footed friend. I didn't feel like exerting the brainpower needed for such matters, and concentrated on using the foot as a stable plank, tucked in behind Angela. Most surprisingly, we were down in 1 1/2 hours. It felt like much longer than that, but my foot was coping well with weight bearing.

And next morning the sunrise was exactly what I ordered. I do love a good mist

I didn't dare inspect the damage until Narcissus Hut. I thought if I looked and saw what I was bound to see, I'd feel sorry for myself, and maybe not be able to go any further. Now, I must say, I have always had the policy that if you are going to hurt a lot on the inside, it is the best thing to have an outer appearance that is commensurate with the inner torture. My foot did me proud. It was grossly distorted and swollen, and coloured a rather nasty combination of red, purple and dark grey. I felt a true martyr.

Leeawuleena, the mellifluous aboriginal name for Lake St Clair that matches its visual beauty with soothing sounds

Despite this magnificent display, I can report nothing is broken. For this, I can only thank my wonderful, solid, leather boots that shielded me from the full force of the bash, and the fact that the impact must have been pretty well back on the foot, so I am extremely lucky in the placement of the collision. My doctor advised rest.

"How many hours do I have to rest for?" I asked (neatly eschewing mention of days or weeks).

She knew the implication of my choice of words, shook her head and smiled wryly (which is why she's my doctor).

"Twenty four / forty eight hours?" , she said with rising intonation and another smile. I got the feeling she was carrying out a kind of barter: What number can I say that will not be so great that this person rejects it altogether, yet not so small as to be nugatory? She chose a good number.

Deal. I'll obey that. I did Pilates instead of running and only walked the dog.

Dawn light

I do not feel unlucky to have been hit by a falling rock coming off Falling Mountain: on the contrary, I feel very much the opposite, and elatedly relieved at all the things that could have been, but weren't. I will enjoy the rest of my summer with even greater gusto.

Our route up Horizontal