MADDENS FALLS

 

                                                  THE BEST OPENER

It’s a waterfall, which, in itself, is an attractant.  Most people find something good to say about waterfalls.  Over the years I’ve come to a conclusion that it’s moving water that is the attractant.  Be it surf, a rainstorm or just a cascade, you have to look at it and it plays with your senses.

So, I figured, we’ll go and have a peep at the drop before doing some of the other things on the list.  Up to Helensburgh and down the Princes Highway we rolled before turning into Dharawal Nature Reserve.  It’s right across the road from a cider distillery, which has relevance because there’s a weir somewhere in the bush and it retains water from which the apple orchard derives its moisture.

Once there was mining here, a revegetating quarry where ironstone aggregate was previously mined exists and, despite some of the poor soil of the shale capped ridges and sandstone, over 500 plant species can be found here.  Frankly, neither of us had seen such a variety in our lives.

I recall once talking to a Dutch lady who had emigrated, and she related how she was so disappointed with the wildflowers here, compared to large tulips and such back in Europe.  However, in time she came to love and understand them and was now their biggest fan.

Some of the specimens are barely visible, yet there’s no denying the variety of hues on show.  In my entire life I’ve never seen such a range of wildflowers.  And let’s not forget the shapes, all manner of geometrical designs are visible.  You can’t stop looking at them and it’s hard to believe we’ve come to view a waterfall because the pauses are constant on this easy trail.

We divert to go and check out the stream and come upon the weir before turning right and heading downriver.  The entire track is fractionally less than a kilometre, is entirely flat and has made boardwalk for the last 100 plus metres.

Maddens Falls are an attractive enough spill and, apparently, the adventurous can continue down the cliffs to other unnamed cascades; but that’s not going to happen today.  Besides, there’s all those wildflowers to view again. There’s also an unseen 24 frog species somewhere out in the waters, some of which can be heard in the background.

Recalling the Heraclitus quote, “The soul is dyed the colour of its thoughts”, was easy on a day such as this.  The opening walk had turned into something so special, the rest of the day had an awful lot to live up to.

 

                                                              LET THE MISERY BEGIN

Tunnels, that’s what this is about, that’s what I’m blaming, not my own recklessness and innate curiousity.

I’m doing a house sit at a place called Stanwell Park, which is directly below Stanwell Tops, a place made famous by Lawrence Hargrave, a man who liked to stand at the top of steep slopes in odd shaped box kites or, more correctly, an assemblage of four of them.  In fact, his whole life is like a story from a Boys Own book.  After his father had moved to Australia from England he failed to matriculate into law like his father but, instead, he circumnavigated Australia in the Ellesmere, his first of six expeditions he sailed on.

He next worked at the Sydney Observatory while getting interesting in flight.  He corresponded with an American, Octave Chanute, who was influenced by him and later went on to be highly influential in the Wright Brothers efforts.

He lived at Stanwell Park where his father had wisely invested in land, including some mining areas, which provided him with a steady income.  His only son (of six children) died at Gallipoli and Lawrence sadly died a couple of months later.

Otford Tunnel was my goal, one of eight originally on this version of the southern railway line, eventually closed because the ventilation was so poor that passengers were continually getting sick, but that was a long time ago.  The local government had plans and announced that this would be part of a rail trail, but nothing has come of it yet.  The Otford name comes from where Hargrave’s father emigrated from.

Today, with my headlight, I took a punt that I might be able to ride my bike through, though I entered very tentatively; a wise choice as it transpired.  Past the graffiti surrounded entrance I edged along.  After stopping and starting for the first 400 metres I conceded defeat and walked the entire rest of the way.

The problem is that water has intervened; a creek runs almost the entire length and there’s even a shower coming from the roof about midway through, ravaging what’s left of the base and making the passageway very difficult. 

Behind me, a family I’d passed 20 minutes earlier kept up a constant patter of chat which constantly echoed through the chamber, annoyingly at times since I was trying to focus on the route.  Initially, if you don’t have a light, it really is pitch black and the floor is invisible until about the last 100 metres.

My relief when the end was near was palpable, through an old gate that once blocked the exit but has been open for years.  At last, I could see a rideable path – whoopee!

The noisy group passed me as navigation was checked.  It looked like roads weren’t too far away and the Otford Railway Station was down there somewhere, though initially the concrete trail went steeply skywards before flattening out and converting to a dirt track with lovely gardens at its side and with glimpses of houses set among the forest, seemingly with a road on the other side; it seemed hope was at hand.

Then it came time to make a decision; right to the road or left to the station.  I opted for Otford Station, clambering down the steps on the steep path.  No sooner had I got a rhythm up than a train pulled into the station.  Now my steps had an urgency about them.  Alas, the train departed about 20 seconds before I made it to the platform.  Obviously the driver hadn’t noted my waving arm!

Now the choice was simple; ride back to base.  I set Miss Direction and struggled up and down the railway stairs before reaching the carpark where, at last, I could straddle the saddle and get some motion into the wheels.

Miss Direction had said steep climb, but even I, a noted ascent hater, had no trouble slow climbing up a scenic road full of lovely bush in the flush of spring.  Imagine my surprise when I reached the top and found I’d come upon Stanwell Tops Lookout, where hardly a parking spot was to be found.  It was Sunday after all.

Having lost my bidden somewhere in the tunnel I salivated when I ordered a double scoop ice cream and then sat on a bench seat on this delightful spring day and soaked up the expansive ocean view.  An obviously older man struck up a conversation, wanting to know if I was getting ready for Le Tour after checking out my attire.  I replied in the affirmative, saying you had to start your training early.

Turns out he was 90, lived at Campbelltown, and drove out here several times a week, sometimes twice in the same day.  He said it was keeping him alive.  There was a time when he’d been into cycling too, had raced and coached one of his sons who’d won N.S.W. under 16’s and other events.  Sadly, he was estranged from most of his family.  I couldn’t help but wonder why.

 I then started reminiscing about the last time I was here, when I did the Gong Ride.

The organizers were keeping batches at the top while the road was cleared and about 400 of us started the descent.  I was probably about twelfth away and rocketed downhill, passing everyone, including the escort motorcycle!  It was a wonderful adrenaline rush.

Today I was much more sedate and settled for closing in on a car that wasn’t really in any hurry at all and cruised the rest of the way before turning off to my house sit.  I could attach many labels to my day out, but none of them was “boring”!

                                         BIG SKY COUNTRY – A DAY LIKE NO OTHER

                                        

It’s hard to quantify.  There’s magic in the air, especially over my head and all the way to the horizon.  It’s up there with anything you might see in any gallery of note, only it’s not a still canvas, it’s a moving work of art, 360 degrees of it, a rival for the Sistine Chapel.  It’s a symphony in cloud major and minor.

The varying layers of cloud are beyond my knowledge, and there’s many of them.  Thin streaks of white, to bulbous masses of threatening grey cumuli nimbus, exist side by side and seemingly encourage everything in between.  It doesn’t matter what I’m trying to photograph outdoors on the range, the sky intervenes.  It’s not a distraction; it’s the main event, as it constantly reminds you.

Towering wind turbines might catch your eye as they twirl, ripping through the air with a low roar, but your gaze will ultimately drift sideways or upwards, because there’s something else out there moving in different directions and constantly changing colour.  It absorbs your mind with a subtlety you’re not really aware of but cannot ignore.

The tortured remnants of once proud trees in their myriad abstract formations, branches askew in a wondrous array of designs, twisting and turning while they had sought to escape some natural threat or other are laid upon this vivid blue and white canvas.

And the wind, you can’t ignore the wind, it’s a constant.  Towards the horizon there are grey lines of cloud slanted at 45 degrees, threatening, seemingly dispensing moisture.

Constable is known for his portrayal of clouds, but the English version has nothing on this.  The white puffy mass so common in his canvases are but an opener to the array I’m looking at.  The shapes, the angles, the random masses taunt your eyes, where to look next.  I know naught but delight at the options on offer.

 

 

                                             BLANDFORDIAN DELIGHTS                                                           

It looks down on you.  Wherever you are at Rocky Cape, it’s above you, taunting you to take up the challenge.  Every previous trip I’d resisted.  It is, after all, a long way up and much of the scenery below is worthy of your time as well.

                                                 

                                                        THE ROCKY BEACH

We’d done the North Cave, been down to the rocky beach, stayed at the wharf overnight, been to the lighthouse; there were few options left so, the decision was made.  It was only an hour return, piece of cake.

Well, except it was all uphill one way and it was over loose rocks, something I’d sworn not to walk on ever again.  However, they were nowhere as bad as Bishop and Clerk.  Poles at the ready, we set out up the hill, following the track that also takes you to Sisters Beach, if you want to do the three-hour thing.

Since it was decidedly overcast and rain was forecast, Mount Blandfordia seemed like the more sensible option.

                                   

In case you were wondering, the name comes from the earl of Blandford a couple of centuries ago and it’s a Christmas bell plant that grows only in Tasmania, a smaller version of the ones most people on the mainland are familiar with, and this is its western extremity.  I actually saw one but didn’t realise its importance and concentrated on photographing other flowers, all of which were so tiny as to almost escape notice.

                                                 The views are vast all over Rocky Cape

Some coastal heath, manuka, parson’s bands, fringe myrtle and one other all ended up in the photo storage.

When we reached the turnoff from the Sisters Beach trail I remember glancing up and hoping there would be amazing views over the hinterland when we reached the top and then pushed upwards with new inspiration.

                                               

                                                              It's all uphill from here!

At the top it’s rugged and difficult but doable as you scramble over the summit cluster of large rocks to get to the very top.  The views are expansive, to say the least.  You can see The Nut at Stanley from here and all the way to Wynyard on the other side.  Bass Strait forms a contrasting background to the foliage and ragged shoreline.  It’s something you can’t absorb quickly, but something you’ll never forget.

                                         

Later on, a walk along the beach where all the strata are tilted at around 70 degrees, and jagged as well, makes for more difficult walking, much harder than the hill in fact.  It’s the lichen covered rock I’m after, having only recently learned that there is no such thing as a singular lichen plant, it’s more a structural combination between an alga and a fungus.  The two link to make an extraordinarily strong pairing that can survive on the exterior exposed surfaces of rock and man-made walls and such.  The colours also make a lovely foreground for photographs!

It was along here we came across girls collecting driftwood, presumably for a fire that night.  It must have been somewhere else because you’re not allowed to camp overnight here.

Next stop was the South Cave, a tortuous short track up to where our indigenous population once camped, before they were wiped out.  It’s reasonably spacious but the walls, in line with everything else, are tilted over at that same geological angle that predominates here and has caused the odd outlines you see.  It’s also a bit deeper than it looks initially, but without a reliable torch I choose not to explore further.

We’d wandered around Rocky Cape for much of the day and left satisfied that we’d seen most of it, well, except for the underwater bits which are purported to rival the Great Barrier Reef in diversity and amazing wildlife.

We actually found an amazing skeleton along the shoreline of a dead fish with extraordinarily large eyes and weird long spikes all over its body, a sure sign it had once been in deep water because that’s where these bizarre things exist.

                                                         Simply strange and surreal

The water here is so clear and uncontaminated it must beckon experienced divers like a magnet to see the extraordinary creatures that exist offshore.  Sadly, I will never be among them but do envy some of the amazing scenes they witness.

That’s what Rocky Cape has to offer.

 

                                                                    GOD’S PUNISHMENT

It’s Maria Island day, which involves being ready by 8.30 a.m., something we haven’t managed at all this trip, for the ferry departure.  Worrying about being ready and my dodgy right knee means little sleep is had because, for some unknown reason, I have decided to have a go at climbing Bishop and Clerk, a distinct outcrop of rock on the northern tip of the island that’s over 620 metres high.

Reading the reviews of others indicated it was probably out of my limits, but I figured if I factored in the push bike, there may be a faint hope.  “The climbing is relentless” one reviewer wrote and, apparently, at the end it gets a lot worse.

So, with much trepidation I headed out on the pushie after the ferry docked, hoping to beat all the walkers who would be trying the climb (turned out there were only six others).

Maria is an enchanting place, free of unnatural predators and thus wildlife flourishes, wombats, echidnas, cape barren geese and native hens, not to mention all the roos, are all flourishing. As you head out, you’re apt to come across some of them.  I mean, where else in Australia can you find a nice furry wombat right beside the dusty trail trying to have a sleep?

It’s open country initially, with vast seascapes across the water to a couple of tiny islands just offshore.  As you swing around to face the distant outcrop the trail gets steep, very steep.  I’m resigned to using a granny gear and zig-zagging and still have to stop a couple of times before the top.  Then there’s a matching steep downhill before another similar energy-sapping ascent with a bench seat for respite about half-way.

After that it’s woodland, though the edge of the cliffs is quite close on the port side still and, on the other side of the trail is the most patterned eucalypt I’ve ever seen in my life. However, as the lady wrote, it’s “relentless” in terms of uphill, though the trail itself is good and easy to follow. 

I manage to get further up, stopping to catch my breath on occasions until, finally, I give up, dismount, and leave my bike and helmet behind.  I figure I’ve only got about 2 kms to go, how hard can it be?

Well, it’s alright and I’m moving freely until the trail has tree roots and a few rocks here and there and it gets just a little arduous.  Then it gets a little more steep, more rocky and more arduous.  That was the good bits because it’s then that you see the landslide rocks.  Nothing in my entire bushwalking life prepared me for this.  It’s a nightmare..

At some stage in the past masses of lumpy rocks have cascaded down the mountain and now, devoid of vegetation, you have to walk up it.  Still, I can see that just 200 metres up the trees start again.

Oh dear, there are only a couple of trees and then the nightmare starts again and the summit looks light years away, it’s so much higher.

Through another couple of trees and then onto a bigger slope, it really is relentless but, then it gets worse!  When you finally get just below the summit, many people don’t go any further because, frankly, it’s just plain scary.  You have to scale a couple of vertical rocks with faint footholds to actually get on the summit.  It is no place for the faint hearted. 

I have a couple of goes before I get enough confidence to throw the top half of my body on the slab and literally drag myself onto it.  How I’m going to get back down I have no idea.

As every reviewer suggests, it’s a spectacular place to be.  There’s an aura here that wraps itself around you and won’t let go.  Whether it’s viewing the lower nearby “Clerk” bit of the formation or gazing back 5-6 kilometers from whence you came, it’s all impressive.

There’s a split rock formation here that involves jumping from one to the other and risking serious injury or death if you make a mistake.  I move around a few but won’t go on the furthest one.  After all, slip and it’s nearly 2,000ft to the ocean.

Eventually, after eating my meagre lunch and emptying my water bottle, other climbers arrive, two men followed by a younger middle-aged German lady, all much more supple than I.  Photos are taken and we get chatting.  Apparently Mount Amos is more scary because it has a slippery granite slope; I remind myself never to go there.

Because one of the gents is comfortable wandering around the far rock I eventually give it a go.  It’s not as scary as I thought but I can understand why all three women (another two have just arrived) point blank won’t go there.

Then, if you thought coming up was bad, wait till you have to descend!  A change of underwear would be a requirement for some.  Going over the edge onto three uncertain steps has everyone worried and I’m glad I remembered my “go down backwards” policy because it makes it a lot more doable, but still scary.

My knees are in “complain” mode all the way back down the rocks.  “Will it ever end” keeps crossing my mind but, of course, it eventually does and the roughish part of the bushwalk commences.  A tree root here, a rock there, but at least I’m going down and the bike lies in wait somewhere further on.  That “somewhere further on” seems twice as far as when I was ascending, and my relief is palpable when the bright green helmet strapped to the frame comes into view.  Now it’s all downhill and much faster and easier.

When, on the top, the German lady and I had compared bike notes and she said she loved riding the mountains in Germany.  Imagine my surprise when I passed her walking.  She’d left her bike about two kilometres before mine and had hardly climbed anything.

I’d originally hoped to make the 2.30 ferry and rocked up with nearly half an hour to spare.  It had taken me around 5 hours to do something I’ll never do again or recommend to anyone.

Still, having done it, you get boasting rights (and a lot of pain for a few days afterwards!).