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.