What does the manufacture of fountain pen nibs, poisonous gas, jewellery and electric light filaments have in common? A mineral called osmiridium is involved, that's what! Osmiridium is a naturally occurring alloy and at one stage a considerable amount of the world's osmiridium was mined in the Adams Valley in the remote South Western Tasmanian wilderness. They called it black gold because for a time it was worth more than our benchmark of wealth and fame, that allusive rock of myth and legend and folly: gold.
In the mid 1920s during the black gold boom a mining town of about 1000 or so people was established in Adams Valley. Everything was horse-packed in and out via Maydena through the scenic but harsh landscape of the Florentine Valley. Nowadays all that remains of Adamsfield is a crude sign and a bunch of rusting junk on the side of a 4WD track in what you could very rightfully call the middle of nowhere. There is a trench, or what the miners called a water race, dug into the valley. A lone telegraph pole stands amongst the bracken, an eerie beacon of a bygone era. There is also a substantial pile of broken glass bottles, which I imagine is near where old Bernie Simmond's pub once stood.
We decided one cold summer night around a fire-pot in North Hobart that Adamsfield was the perfect setting for a horror movie. There would be chainsaws, motorbikes, open mine shafts, machetes, abandoned log cabins and nice scenery for the film critics. So in an attempt to make the next Blair Witch Project/Wolf Creek we organised a camping trip.
Well, our horror movie ended up being a rather uneventful but pleasant trek into the remote Tasmanian wilderness. To get into Adamsfield we were required to register and pick up a key from the Mt Field Park Office located in a town imaginatively called National Park. From here we headed West on the Gordon River Road and eventually turned left onto a thin gravel logging track called Clear Hill Road. About 17kms along Clear Hill Rd we turned right onto the Morsley track (which should be called the Adamsfield Track... life, the world, death and everything in between would be a hell of a lot easier to navigate if tracks, roads, paths, avenues, religions and philosophies were each known by one name only!) The track is gated, so the Park key does come in handy. When we drove the track (mid April 2013) it was in good condition and a two-wheel-drive 78 Ford Transit (affectionately known as the Buffalo Bill van and the star of our horror movie) made it to the camp-site.
A word of warning for the civilised and cultured campers: the “promotional brochures” claim that the camp-site has a pit toilet. The closest thing we found to a pit toilet was the remnants of a toilet seat lying on ground decorated artfully with toilet paper at various stages of decomposition. So bring a trowel, find a good view and dig your own hole.
In the 20s, from all reports, there was a whole lot more to Adamsfield than a lone telegraph pole and the remnants of a toilet seat. In fact, a fellow named Bernie Simmonds was inspired by some poltergeist or perhaps an overdose of black silver to build a big paling mansion. Inside, warmed by a large fireplace, there was a billiard room, card tables and bottles of sly grog. The majority of miners lived in flimsy makeshift tents and ate bacon, damper and what they referred to as tinned dog (tinned meat). And all the evidence suggests they drank considerable amounts of Bernie Simmond's “sly grog”. I'm not seeing much nutritional value - Jamie Oliver wouldn't have been impressed.
The matron of Bernie Simmond's pub was an evil-hearted gal known as Mrs Shirwood. She was an unpleasant individual and she was in the unenviable, all powerful position of managing the distribution of the sly grog. Some conniving miners got their own back, however, because one night as Mrs Shirwood was entering her boudoir it was blasted out of existence. They say Mrs Shirwood's exploding boudoir was the most exciting event in the history of Adamsfield and no doubt it brought the towns-folk together. A common foe was taught a lesson and there's a lesson still today for anyone unfortunate enough to live in Rokeby: treat people kindly or expect your belongings to go up in smoke.
While not much evidence remains of Adamsfield there is an foreboding atmosphere that surrounds the entire area. Maybe it is the remoteness, maybe it is the beauty and quiet of the forest, the soft purr of the river, or the jagged heights of the mountains. Maybe it's all of these things combined. I couldn't help but feel uneasy while strolling through the chest high bracken that now covers the site of the old township. And in a way the history of Adamsfield is a crude, low-budget horror movie – a black comedy, a vivid reminder that we, our hopes, dreams and our treasured belongings are temporary and that all too soon the sum of us is forgotten and the forest grows interminable and time turns everything to dust, minerals, even osmiridum, only to be mined again, perhaps, in the distant Hitch-hiker’s Guide to the Galaxy future.
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| A 4.5mm nugget of Osmiridium from Adamsfield - www.bluegems.com.au |
In the mid 1920s during the black gold boom a mining town of about 1000 or so people was established in Adams Valley. Everything was horse-packed in and out via Maydena through the scenic but harsh landscape of the Florentine Valley. Nowadays all that remains of Adamsfield is a crude sign and a bunch of rusting junk on the side of a 4WD track in what you could very rightfully call the middle of nowhere. There is a trench, or what the miners called a water race, dug into the valley. A lone telegraph pole stands amongst the bracken, an eerie beacon of a bygone era. There is also a substantial pile of broken glass bottles, which I imagine is near where old Bernie Simmond's pub once stood.
 |
| The Cast at the Adamsfield Sign |
We decided one cold summer night around a fire-pot in North Hobart that Adamsfield was the perfect setting for a horror movie. There would be chainsaws, motorbikes, open mine shafts, machetes, abandoned log cabins and nice scenery for the film critics. So in an attempt to make the next Blair Witch Project/Wolf Creek we organised a camping trip.
Well, our horror movie ended up being a rather uneventful but pleasant trek into the remote Tasmanian wilderness. To get into Adamsfield we were required to register and pick up a key from the Mt Field Park Office located in a town imaginatively called National Park. From here we headed West on the Gordon River Road and eventually turned left onto a thin gravel logging track called Clear Hill Road. About 17kms along Clear Hill Rd we turned right onto the Morsley track (which should be called the Adamsfield Track... life, the world, death and everything in between would be a hell of a lot easier to navigate if tracks, roads, paths, avenues, religions and philosophies were each known by one name only!) The track is gated, so the Park key does come in handy. When we drove the track (mid April 2013) it was in good condition and a two-wheel-drive 78 Ford Transit (affectionately known as the Buffalo Bill van and the star of our horror movie) made it to the camp-site.
 |
| The Buffalo Bill van at Clark's Huts |
A word of warning for the civilised and cultured campers: the “promotional brochures” claim that the camp-site has a pit toilet. The closest thing we found to a pit toilet was the remnants of a toilet seat lying on ground decorated artfully with toilet paper at various stages of decomposition. So bring a trowel, find a good view and dig your own hole.
In the 20s, from all reports, there was a whole lot more to Adamsfield than a lone telegraph pole and the remnants of a toilet seat. In fact, a fellow named Bernie Simmonds was inspired by some poltergeist or perhaps an overdose of black silver to build a big paling mansion. Inside, warmed by a large fireplace, there was a billiard room, card tables and bottles of sly grog. The majority of miners lived in flimsy makeshift tents and ate bacon, damper and what they referred to as tinned dog (tinned meat). And all the evidence suggests they drank considerable amounts of Bernie Simmond's “sly grog”. I'm not seeing much nutritional value - Jamie Oliver wouldn't have been impressed.
The matron of Bernie Simmond's pub was an evil-hearted gal known as Mrs Shirwood. She was an unpleasant individual and she was in the unenviable, all powerful position of managing the distribution of the sly grog. Some conniving miners got their own back, however, because one night as Mrs Shirwood was entering her boudoir it was blasted out of existence. They say Mrs Shirwood's exploding boudoir was the most exciting event in the history of Adamsfield and no doubt it brought the towns-folk together. A common foe was taught a lesson and there's a lesson still today for anyone unfortunate enough to live in Rokeby: treat people kindly or expect your belongings to go up in smoke.
While not much evidence remains of Adamsfield there is an foreboding atmosphere that surrounds the entire area. Maybe it is the remoteness, maybe it is the beauty and quiet of the forest, the soft purr of the river, or the jagged heights of the mountains. Maybe it's all of these things combined. I couldn't help but feel uneasy while strolling through the chest high bracken that now covers the site of the old township. And in a way the history of Adamsfield is a crude, low-budget horror movie – a black comedy, a vivid reminder that we, our hopes, dreams and our treasured belongings are temporary and that all too soon the sum of us is forgotten and the forest grows interminable and time turns everything to dust, minerals, even osmiridum, only to be mined again, perhaps, in the distant Hitch-hiker’s Guide to the Galaxy future.
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