Cape Raoul - Part of the Three Capes walk Tasmania

                                                                       By Ian Smith

It was idyllic weather for late January, maybe just a touch on the warm side for a walk but, when you’ve got adventure in your blood, there’s not much will stop you.

I was searching for the start of a trail on the Tasman Peninsula.  Searching for a place called Cape Raoul.  A place few who have visited the peninsula have even heard of.

I had a small book called “Tasmania’s Great Short Walks”, a readily available (and free) font of information about 60 walks you can do in that most southern of states.  I’ve managed 17 so far.

I had been through the settlement of Nubeena and was now searching for the turnoff to Highcroft and Stormlea, located a further 3 kms down the road at Parsons Bay Creek.  Lucky I didn’t blink.

Having found the turn off it’s routine from there because you simply keep going until you can’t go any further.  Here the road broadens out to allow about 6 vehicles to park and, lo and behold, there was a motorhome already in attendance along with a 4WD that had pulled up a couple of minutes earlier.

By the time I had my backpack and camera ready I was all alone and went up to sign the visitors book, a precaution in case you get lost (won’t happen) or fall over a cliff (only if you’re totally stupid).

Initially the walk is through dense fern scrub but that only last 5 minutes before the forest takes over as you ascend and then reach an intersection where you can take a short trail to a lookout on the right or go straight ahead for the 5 hour return walk to Cape Raoul.

It isn’t that much further before you’re suddenly confronted with your first glorious view along the rugged coastline.  It was here that I caught up with the father and his two daughters from the 4WD and he filled me in with what I could expect from here.

                   

Apparently it was straightforward and so it turned out to be.  Climbing over the only hill you get more glimpses of the stark dramatic beauty of the place and the track is easy to follow.

I had spoken to a ranger at Hartz Peak and he said you saw more of the cliffs here than the other walks on Tasman Peninsula offered and that was why I had chosen this track.

It was over an hour into the walk when I chanced across the couple from the motorhome.  Amazingly, they were from my home town of Newcastle and Graeme and Jennifer Chaston were directly related to someone in the bike club I race at.  We exchanged contact numbers for future reference and continued our separate ways.

They had filled me in with the details of what to expect and I soldiered on to the final fluted cliffs through the heathland scrub that now bordered the path.

                           

  

Let me say right here; if you’re into stunning dolerite ramparts, you won’t be disappointed.  The geometric columns with the echoing sea crashing around their base and the islands beyond are a sight to behold.  Add to that the seals cavorting on the rocks and the updraft carrying the scent of the ocean and you have a magical place.  Mind you, the scent of the ocean might have a bit of seal in it as well!

                                            

I tarried for some time, partaking of my food and drink, while I let it all flow over my soul and regenerate my spirit.

The bad news is you have to return to your vehicle and it’s a genuine 2 hour plus slog but with the views on the way you forget about your aches and pains until you have to ascend the hill again but, what a memory you  will have to cherish.

It was only a couple of days later that I found myself heading to Bruny Island for more of the same.  Bruny’s name comes from Bruni D’Entrecasteaux.

You get there via a vehicular ferry from Kettering and the $40 fare covers you for a return journey.

It runs about hourly depending on what time of day it is and it pays to check out what time the last ferry leaves if you’re planning to return to Tassie proper, as night time ferries are a rarity.

One thing you’ll soon learn about Bruny is that they haven’t quite made up their minds whether to tar the island’s streets or not, so half are dirt and half are sealed.  There’s no set places, you might be on dirt for 5 kms then suddenly you’re back on tar for 6 kms then it’s back to gravel again.

On the way at the much photographed Narrow Neck isthmus from North Bruny it pays to stop and have a geek from the lookout to get the famous shot of the thin band of sand that joins the two islands.

This is also a good place to see penguins and there’s an informative guide to viewing on the billboards present here.

Once across, the road winds through tight bends until you reach Adventure Bay which is the main tourist spot on the island.

Here, if you choose to stay in the caravan park, you will see the albino wallabies come in to feed at evening time.  It’s an interesting story how they found one and brought it to Bruny to avoid predators and the gene has since been passed on and there are now about 60 in total, which totally spoiled my experience of seeing one jumping across the road in front of me and thinking, “Wow, how unique is this!”  As it transpired, not very.

I’d come here to walk the Fluted Cliffs, something I have to admit I did after I took the easy option of the Bruny Island Charters cruise. 

They have a fleet of three vessels that take tourists around to, and often up close and personal to, the very ramparts I was to walk on later.

If you’re into that sort of thing, I’d recommend it as good value.

The cliff top walk is also listed in the Great Short Walks booklet.  It’s rated as a 2.5 hour walk and, at the risk of stating the obvious, it is uphill to get to the apex of the cliffs and I recommend you take some fluid with you as it’s about 45 minutes of ascending and then more ups and downs when you’re actually following the line of cliffs.

However, once there the views are special indeed and as you traverse the cliff top, if you follow the recommended route, they just get better by the minute for the 20 minutes you are at the summit.  It’s so dramatic standing above a sheer drop listening to the constant roar of the ocean below echoing up the ramparts.  It’s something I never tire of.

Once you descend you’ll pass a couple of historical sites, one of which explains how 41 whales were landed there as long ago as 1829 and, at this same property, how escaped convicts from Port Arthur raided the place and made off with a pig.

It was only one of eight whaling station around South Bruny at the time.

A little later on you’ll learn that penguins and shearwaters share Bruny Island which is unusual for they normally are not noted bedfellows.

It was not far from here that Captain Cook landed in 1781 yet it was the French rear admiral Bruny d’Entrecasteaux whose name graces the island for his two ships, Recherche and l’Esperance (writ large upon the maps of W.A.) discovered that Bruny was indeed an island while searching for the lost La Perouse in 1792.

When he first saw this island it was the forests that impressed him most. He wrote of... "...trees of an immense height and proportionate diameter, their branchless trunks covered with evergreen foliage, some looking as old as the world; closely interlacing in an almost impenetrable forest, they served to support others which, crumbling with age, fertilised the soil with their debris; nature in all her vigor, and yet in a state of decay, seems to offer to the imagination something more picturesque and more imposing than the sight of this same nature bedecked by the hand of civilised man. "Wishing only to preserve her beauties we destroy her charm, we rob her of that power which is hers alone, the secret of preserving in eternal age eternal youth."

Isn’t it wonderful that, even today, you can still go and soak up some of that sentiment.

Blue Mountains N.S.W. Hanging Rock

JUST HANGING FOR IT

I’d decided to take the mountain bike.  This would be its first trip away and I planned to use it.  My main goal was Hanging Rock, a dazzling precipice somewhere in the Blue Mountains that I’d seen pictures of but never really chased.  Then someone posted a dawn shot on Facebook and I was truly hooked this time.  I queried as to how to get to the place and received a reply.  Now it was written in ink.

There’s a trail by the name of Burramoko, off the end of Ridgeway Road, which leads you to Baltzer Lookout.  From here you can get shots of Hanging Rock.  I determined that I would try for a dawn rendezvous but that’s not always as easy as it seems.

After setting up at Coolah I’d been nearly a week in the wilderness and loving every minute of it but Hanging Rock would make the trip truly worthwhile.  It kept dragging me further ahead of schedule than I’d originally intended until I arrived a full day early and decided to try for a sunset ride just to check everything out.

                                        

The lady at the National Parks office at Blackheath had been very helpful, plying me with maps and relevant information to the point where I wasn’t sure which one to consult next but it was photocopied mud map that was the key so I sought out Ridgewell Road and travelled to the first locked gate.  It was here, I had been informed, that you could park your vehicle but, when I arrived, I was so glad it was late and a week day because your odds of getting a park would be zero on weekends and holidays.  There’s a sum total of about 6 spots and only two where a motorhome would fit.  I was lucky.

The map said it was 1 ½ kms to the second locked gate and then a further 4 kms to Baltzer.  I was so glad I’d brought the bike.  I set out without glasses because the light was getting poorer by the minute and regretted it soon after when clusters of insects smacked me in the face and a couple got under my eyelids.  It was a real roller coaster ride with erosion humps everywhere making the downhills a bit thrilling but the real excitement was further on.

                                        

I reached Baltzer and parked the bike; you have to walk the last 200 metres.  It’s only then that you get a sense of just how epic this spot is.  There are no fences, just vertiginous drops into the abyss of Grose Valley.  Your sense of balance becomes instantly heightened; the slightest breeze becomes cause for alarm as the ridge narrows to its ultimate conclusion.  I couldn’t see Hanging Rock initially and looked in vain for the tell-tale overhang before finally figuring that photographing that iconic view involved going left down a trail that I had no wish to try now the sun had actually vanished from sight; so I retired from the scene and pencilled in the morrow.

As ever, wanting to get up without an alarm means little sleep will be had and only about four hours maximum was had in fits and starts before 5.30 arrived and it was suddenly panic stations because I knew I wanted the right light, nothing’s quite like the golden hour.  Spurred on by the raucous cry of a lone currawong I frantically got my riding gear on and headed out.  Flecked between the woodland vegetation a brilliant smoky red sun indicated its presence, tormenting me with colours I knew would be gone by the time I reached the lookout.

However, it was the bush track I had to concentrate on, especially the sandy bits and the erratic downhills.  I made good time and worked out that after leaving the bike I had to drop off left of Baltzer to get the shot that every other snapper worthy of the name already had.  But my, how steep was the track!  In a word, “very”.  I hesitated here and there because there was only a rutted trail beside the canyon wall, one slip and you could appear in the obituary columns next week.

The sought after scene came into play at last as I neared the bottom and passed three bolts to which rock climbers could fix their gear.  I knew already why I didn’t go rock climbing, this merely served to confirm that view.

                                                  

Being close to Hanging Rock makes you even more in awe of how geology works.  This protrusion, that will one day collapse (never with me on it!), is epic in scale and deliverance and, once you’re there, it’s easy to understand why people come here despite the safety hazards.  Somehow the other distant cliffs pale into insignificance beside this wonder of abstract art.  It took me some time before I decided to leave but I was secure in the knowledge that I had, at last, viewed and recorded this iconic platform.

                                       

The road back was almost lost in reflection except that the wildflowers had been kissed by old sol at shallow angles and their colours shone brilliantly.  It’s not always that planned days work out as you’d hoped, but this had exceeded my expectations.

Breaking Away - Coober Pedy

Breaking Away at Coober Pedy

Approaching the area there’s a moonscape unlike anything I’ve ever seen anywhere and one of the features is the gypsum salts, except you’d be forgiven for thinking that there’d been a serious vehicle accident here because they look like shattered glass shards strewn across a black plain full of foreboding.  The indigenous name for the area is “Amoona” and I have no trouble understanding where they got the “moon” bit, though the whole name refers to a species of tree, so called, that can be found in the area.

  

In the distance you can see the range of hills that you have to pay $10 per vehicle ($8 concession) to view; a worn plateau that beckons you onward such is its contrast to the surrounding land.  I imagined it would just be that.  How wrong was I.

Even the first set have colour but it’s merely the overture to main symphony.  The stark hues are staggering.  From chalky whites to sulphur yellows to iron oxide reds the colours blaze in the midday sun.  It’s a photographer’s wet dream.  My hour became all morning and then I downloaded the panoramas at the main lookout and emailed them off.  Just as well really because in the afternoon I went to another spot, plunged off the cliff into the valley floor and took twice as many.

Every 20 metres the vista was magically different, the shapes seen from another entrancing angle, the colours changing in intensity.  I realised then why I had never heard of the place; because if you never left the road it is “worth a look” and that’s about it, but if you walk among it it’s something else again.  Other than Italy in autumn I’ve never seen so much colour in such a small area.

Then I’d returned, years later, figured there was more than what I’d seen last time and I pondered where I might go.  It’s like being lost in a maze except you can see everything but the kaleidoscope of colour is so distracting you’re just not sure just which direction to head first.

As a photographer, it helps greatly if you can “see” pictures before you actually get to the spot where you take them.  Here, inspiration abounds yet, I can well imagine, to the casual eye there may well not be a lot to view.

I stopped a couple of times before walking over to Pupa (Two Dog Mountain), side by side buttes of white and yellow ochres that are one of the highlights here.  The contrast is dazzling, you can’t take your eyes off it for some time, it’s arguably one of the more mesmerising sights in the Australian Outback.  Walking around here is problematic because the surface is so fragile, you have to take much care where you plant your foot so as not to disturb anything, so no one actually goes over to the formation itself.

I returned to the motorhome and wound up to the main lookout.  It’s here where the vast majority view and move on, but you can’t help but notice a couple of worn trails that descend, down to where the colours and scenery constantly change and there’s a new photo opportunity every 10 metres.  It was all I could do to pack my gear and get going.

I headed towards Ungkata, a small peak to the left of a main outcrop, it’s a totem for the local Antakirinja people and represents the bearded dragon lizard.  One of the grooves leading from the lookout is my guide as I stumble over loose rocks and make my way down.  There’s iron red, sulphur yellow, blinding white and flecks of green vegetation and I’m soon clicking back into the over 300 photos I’ll take today.  It’s rubbernecking territory and my excitement mounts but I can’t help but thinking, as I glance back at a couple of new arrivals, whether or not they will get the same excitement.  Sadly they leave 10 minutes later but I so want to share what I’m feeling.

Hoping for something different I note a couple of rises in the distance and turn my back on the main section and the lone peregrine falcon atop an outcrop, sticking to worn paths wherever I go except when I head off for about two kilometres, there aren’t any.  No footprints, nothing moving, just me and the terrain.

About half way across to the lesser outcrop there’s the tiniest of watercourses marked, by a row of hardy acacias, though just how many times a trickle would splutter along this route you could probably count on your fingers.  Amazingly, there’s billy buttons, desert peas and some form of daisy – how could they survive, let alone flower?  There’s also a couple of superb wrens flitting around to complete the scene.

I meander on, thinking what it must have been like for the first explorers, wondering how indigenous people could walk around here barefoot; both scenarios beggar belief.  Eventually I reach my goal and slowly circle upwards on the main butte but it gets a bit tight near the top as I round the last curve and am almost startled as much as the peregrine that springs into the air.  I curse my luck that I wasn’t able to get a shot before looking around.  It’s even more eerie over here because no-one can be seen anywhere and no-one’s been here since, well, who knows when?  The gibbers are everywhere, undisturbed by human presence they sit atop the ground awaiting the next strong wind before once again they move.

The stroll back is soul clearing.  There’s some psychological name for it that I can’t recall but your mind is allowed to wander, to create.  Anything is liable to pop into your head as you crunch across this parched landscape but eventually I visualize myself climbing the escarpment to the motorhome and having a cup of tea overlooking where I’ve just been.  Though I’ve done very little in reality I feel like I’ve accomplished much.

I ascend on a different route and find ever more artistic opportunities before scrambling up the last bit of vertical strata and then I’m back inside and it’s another world, one of familiarity and knowing where things are as the water starts to boil and I gaze outside at the next batch of tourist arriving at the lookout and wonder just how they will view The Breakaways.