WALLS CAVE

I thought I knew most of the walks in the Blue Mountains. That was before I joined Roz and the crew at Blue Mountains Best Walks, yet, during my brief tenure on the site, Walls Cave certainly hadn’t come up; though I’m sure someone would have posted it at some stage.

Still, the big board at Evans Lookout gave it a bit of a rap. “Spectacular views” it said; that was the first thing that caught my eye and stayed embedded in my brain. Tomorrow I would do that.

The street in, so called, was a tad disconcerting. It’s short and winds up as dirt. I wasn’t quite sure where to park and pulled up somewhat short of where I might have. Not to worry, only added 150 metres to the walk.

As somewhat of an afterthought I took my camera, as in my big camera that looks very serious but hardly ever gets used because the Samsung phone camera is better for most things, except birds. You still need a serious telephoto for birds.

                                    

                                                                    Red wattlebird

The start is very benign, though the steps start immediately and never stop. The only variation is the space between them. The view is disappointing, it’s basically a banksia forest. Hectare after hectare of low scrub but it does mean there are birds here and, for the first time this trip, I’m armed and ready and manage a couple of captures on the way down, making the added weight of the cumbersome lens worthwhile.

There’s a turn to the right at about the half way mark, leading to more of the same. Way down the bottom there’s a gap in the cliff, but it looks fairly average. Down and down I go until a large rock wall is reached. The next 50 metres will turn my day around.

There’s a stream on the left and a bridge looms up to cross it. Half way across said bridge there’s a stunning view up the insides of a slot canyon in the huge rock. Wow, I can’t click quickly enough.

A little further on there’s a series of sandstone steps that take you across the rest of the stream. Unfortunately, they’re not all stable. After the first one moves a tad I become very cautious and test the rest out before consigning my weight to them. Three moved.

They all lead to Walls Cave, a huge, mesmerising overhang that challenges your neck muscles. There are horizontal lines of ferns where water is seeping from the sandstone and the place is majestic. Well, except for where the vandals have chosen to emblazon their names. I never quite understand why some people seek recognition this much; perhaps they never get it at home.

The stream that has caused this spectacle flows nearby, the gurgle giving its presence away. It’s hard to conceive that this seemingly innocuous body of water has, over the millennia, carved this giant cavern out. Greaves Creek has seen a lot over the years, including natives, whose presence we can reliably date back 12,000 years but be certain it goes back much further than that.

I reflect that it’s Sunday so the nearby Grand Canyon will be very busy but here, just up the road, a place that attracts few, I have all to myself….and the birds.

On the return I divert down an unmade track where others have clearly gone. It leads to a gap between two significant rock outcrops and is definitely not recommended for young children, older folk or those of uncertain foot.

The descent is steep at times and, but for a sturdy tree root, I doubt I would have made it. The result, however, makes it all worthwhile. It’s a surreal world of multi-hued rock faces, clusters of ferns and overwhelming shapes, all accompanied by the sound of a thrashing stream right in front of you. I tarry awhile to savour a future memory, not knowing where to turn my head as it’s all so wondrous.

Then it’s time to leave. I pause a few times on the way back up and manage to snare a spotted pardalote but get frustrated at other species taking off just as I’m trying to focus. The stairs get to you after a time but at least you know how far you’ve got to go and it’s a perfect day for a hike and you just can’t get out of your head how good the cave area was and what good memories you’ve captured with you camera. Then comes another one. Someone has carved a face into a termites nest. C’est la vie!

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.