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.

Call Me Mr. Lucky

MOUNT MURCHISON – CALL ME MR. LUCKY (AGAIN)

It rises before you, this brooding outcrop of rock, towering upwards, often beyond the clouds, acting like a temptress from Greek mythology, luring you to come within its grasp.  Every time I laid my gaze upon it the temptation grew, every time the drifting clouds taunted me, offering only glimpses of the prize.  Where there’s a mountain, there’s a way up it, though not all come back alive, as I recently had reaffirmed when I read a book by Australia’s premier mountain climber, the first to ascend all peaks over 8,000 metres.  Though Mount Murchison could hardly begin to be classified among the greats but, all mountains, no matter what their size, carry risks when man seeks to overcome them and, when I did specific research on Murchison, many were the warnings.

However, also in that research were clusters of photographs with much appeal.  It’s a mountain of many facets and I particularly liked the tarns stuck in the middle of a caldera shape.  Indeed, some photographer had gone the extra yard and trekked down to them and came back with a couple of stunners.  This time I determined, one way or the other, I was going up that hill.

Last time through we’d been in the motorhome and found a delightful spot beside Lake Rosebery; only spoiled by a couple of young mums and their screaming kids who had car stereo going full blast, totally destroying the peace and tranquility you’d normally expect in such a place.  Still, when they left we had the place all to ourselves and even had a dip in the refreshing waters while Murchison loomed in the background.  It was one of those “into nature” places that drift across the mind whenever it might seek calm and delightful memories though, when I went back and had a look at the photos, the one that made me laugh was Lorraine walking around in my clearly oversize dressing down the following morning beside the remnants of a barbecue fire surrounded by a ring of rocks.  There in the almost pristine wilderness it seemed, somehow, somewhat incongruous.

This time we’d researched the weather and, with Lorraine wanting to head off to Stanley in favourable conditions, Murchison was postponed for another day.

Lorraine woke me in the morning which was just as well because I’d had trouble sleeping and had no idea what time it was.  Suffice it to say, with some help in food prep from Lorraine, I was under way at 7 a.m., endorphins racing madly around my body.  Somehow I couldn’t settle driving and the perfect weather spurred me onwards.  Perhaps, at times, the speed limit was exceeded, but I was on a mission, a mission that became frustrating as I was held up at three successive roadworks.  They obviously didn’t have their traffic lights in synch and I was stopped for a few minutes at each.

Eventually freed from the diggings I was pushing onwards when I came to MacIntosh Bridge over Lake Rosebery.  Here, crepuscular rays were bursting through the rising fog off the lake.  My photographer’s instinct leapt to the fore and I screeched (okay, slowed down quickly) on the southern side of the bridge and started clicking.  In my excitement I really didn’t take a lot of time working out the angles and I’d only been there for a couple of minutes when a car pulled up on the northern side of the bridge.

Working my way across the arch I turned around and saw perfect reflections on the opposite side of the span emanating from a gorge I wished I’d had time to explore.  Across the other side I walked down to the man who had a contraption in his hands.  All the way there I’d heard this strange noise and could only guess that it was the fizzing off the power lines laden with dew.  In fact, it was a drone and we were both photographing the same thing, but from entirely different angles.

After a brief discussion we exchanged emails and I made way back to the car; the mountain awaited.

The instructions I had were concise and in another 10 minutes I was out of the car and packing for the hike, the excitement fuelled by uncertainty of whether I would actually make it or not.  It was about here that I realized I’d left my drink bottles behind in the fridge.  Bad mistake.

A book for signing is just ten metres into the myrtle forest and I had no idea of the date as I filled in my details and had to return to the road to get the registration figures.  The forest continues for about the first 20% of the walk.  You begin to wonder if there’s any end to it as you gain height continually.  Still, there’s plenty of shade though no breeze and my body starts to warm up as I twist around the roots.

It’s pretty, but I’m glad when I finally break free and can get some idea of how I’m going and it’s obvious that I’ve still got a long way to go.  Upwards, ever upwards, until around 1 hour into the hike I call a halt and bring out my thermos.  I’m so grateful to have a cuppa and some biscuits, putting some energy back in.

I take time to look around and, even this early in, the place is impressive.  Across from a tarn way below the strata is captivating.  It’s wavy immediately above the water but then, far to the right, it rises sheer to the summit of another peak, forced in ancient geological times by thrust of unimaginable power.  Around here the trail diverts to the right but the climb is relentless, a word I repeat often on the ascent.  At times I’m breathless and a mite dizzy and even shocked when some small mammal scoots from a hole and races between my legs….at least, I think it was, then again, it might have been a bird, but the hole was certainly real.

The mountain giveth, the mountain taketh away.  This thought runs through my head as I gaze upwards at the tantalizing heights yet also reflect on my suffering body.  Then, something happens to boost my spirits.  Concerned at the lack of fluids I had been conserving them until I reached the summit.  I’d discovered a lost flask from a previous expedition with some left in it but I didn’t want to drink that if it could be avoided but, now, right in front of me, the unmistakeable gurgle of flowing water.  My eyes lit up and the tiny watercourse flickered in the shadow of some ground hugging vegetation.  There was one spot where I could easily fill a bottle and so I did, downing one filling then packing the next as a reserve.

With renewed energy I attacked the ascent and then came to a rope.  I had no idea how far up it went but summoned up the courage to attempt it and hauled my weight towards the next level.  Luckily, it was only about 15 metres before you could walk relatively safely again.  Here you could see how you might attain the summit and you were approaching the last quarter.

Here and there a wind would buffet you, depending on the lay of the mountain.  I had removed my shirt some time before as it became saturated with sweat and I was grateful for any movement of air.

Somewhere after the 2 hour mark I crested the apex of a ridge and it is here, without doubt, that Murchison captures your soul, having taking the exertions of your body.  I’m in awe of the majesty of the place.  Were this in Greece 2,500 years ago it would surely have been the place of the gods.  Indeed, on one horizon lays the great mountain range of Tasmania, with peaks like the Acropolis, Mount Geryon (a fearsome giant) and Lake Elysia (struck by lightning).  Others have been similarly inspired apparently.

Murchison is a place of many peaks though.  Which one is the highest I know not as the trail leads me on a frighteningly narrow path with a precipitous drop to a tarn far below.  The goal is near however, and there’s no turning back from this point.  It’s only a short section thankfully, maybe 15 metres or so, but I’m so glad to be on the other side.  100 metres further on and the views are spectacular; your eyes struggling to know where to look first, the sun bouncing off the ripples in the tarns below deflects your vision to the horizon.  I’ve never seen the Du Cane Range like this, all lumps and bumps across the southern sky.

Then there’s the trig station, no chance of me ever going there.  It sits astride a razorback ridge where foliage declines to exist, except maybe for a hardy plant or two stuck in a crevice.  You could spend a whole day here just peak bagging but I’m sated in the knowledge I’ve reached some point up here and will leave the ragged bits to the serious climbers.

It’s a “wow” moment and I stop, unpack and take my time to savour it for at least a few minutes, actually, close to 20 because I can’t stop soaking up the magnificence and the day is made to order.  The only thing I’d change is the wind ruffling the tarns and occasionally ripping across the ridge, though I’ve set up base just on the lee side.

It’s almost reluctantly that I start back, snapping here and there and shooting some small grasshoppers which seem to favour the heights.  Somehow I miss the scary bit on the return and drop off the ledge into descent mode.  I know it will be easier and the light has actually improved; the thin haze on the horizon has cleared and it’s an even more perfect day. 

Upon reaching the little streamlet I refill my bottle yet again and continue on, taking little rests here and there and continually eyeing off the myrtle forest because I know that, once there, I can escape the sun and it won’t be far to Kia.  Somehow though, it seems to take forever, though it’s probably around an hour since the bottle refill when the vegetation rises above my head and adrenalin starts to course around my body, even more so when I hear a vehicle seemingly not that far away.

I up the pace but then my thighs start letting me know that it’s not a good idea but I can’t slow down as the sound of a truck rolling by below tempts me onward.  When I eventually get to the log book I’m more than happy and fill in the details of my walk, noting the 4 cups of tea, 3 bottles of water, 1 wrap and 2 biscuits that I consumed and the time, I roughly guess, of 5 ¾ hours during which I snapped off 300 photos.

I sit down on the final step, looking at the car across the road, but not wishing to go there as I’m hot and it’s fully exposed to the sun.  Thus I watch the cars go by for a quarter of an hour and wave gently at them while I cool down.  When I finally stand up again I find it hard to believe I have no pain, no aches, just a feeling of having done something worthwhile and I start the car with a feeling of contentment running through my veins and head off to Tullah, a town where once many were employed but, these days, just a couple of hundred souls live here and you can’t help but feel that tourism is going to be its main future.

I rock on down to the caravan park café for some afternoon tea.  The spacious restaurant is deserted apart from staff and a couple sitting outside.  I move out to the table beside them and it’s so eerie.  They’re not speaking, at all.  The silence is weird; it’s like they’re props in a movie and have been told to sit and say nothing.  I’m fairly keen for some conversation but it just doesn’t happen so I’m left eyeing the delightful Lake Rosebery yet again though from a different point this time.  The couple leave and I reminisce on the day’s events, thinking how lucky I was to arrive at Lake Rosebery when the fog was lifting, have made-to-order weather on the mountain, discover running water just when I needed it and being able to use someone else’s car to get here – cheers!