INDIAN HEAD - DAY TWO

It had been a tough day, I’d just returned and it was time to go to the toilet, of which there are three, mens and ladies plus a unisex.  As I walk past the ladies a middle-aged man is talking to someone inside. Transpires it’s his very young daughter and she’s crying; apparently she can’t get out as the lock is malfunctioning.  Unable to assist and it looked like the matter was in hand, I moved to the gents and sat down.

The father was reiterating that he would get help or some tools.  His daughter cried on.  Then he said he’d contact the manager, whose name was Gary.  He contacted him sooner than he thought; Gary was in the middle toilet taking the situation in and his clear voice indicated that he would soon organize assistance, just give him a minute.  Sitting down it all sounded like a script from a backyard comedy.

Gary was a character; he stays on site for free as he looks after any problem or notifies N.P.W.S. if it’s something he can’t handle.  The park has no fixed sites, no power, just toilets and cold showers.  Earlier in the day he’d enlightened me about the trail I was contemplating, the track to Diamond Head.  He was a veritable font of knowledge and two things he kept reiterating were that it was very steep and, it was wonderfully scenic. 

He looked a tad doubtful when I said I wanted to use the mountain bike, concerned about the steepness and the deteriorating state of the track.  Not to worry, I’ll give it a go.

The first part was easy, about half a kilometre up a moderate hill till there’s an open space.  This is where the hang gliders take off when the wind is from the right direction.  It’s also an unrestricted view south, down the seemingly endless beach all the way to unseen Crowdy Head beyond the horizon, a seascape so vast as to beggar the imagination.

I move on, past the sign that explains Kylie Tennant’s presence here in the naming of some things, such as the lookout.  She was an author of the earlier 20^th century and loved the place, “League after league the headlands curve up the coast of the continent.  The white fingers of the sea play on them, each bluff giving out its unique note, making its own music.”

Now the track becomes problematic; either side has dried firm mud but there’s an eroded watercourse in the middle which makes cycling virtually impossible.  I dismount and start to walk.  There’s a sense of anticipation now as I move closer to the heights and the cliffs on the other side that confront the ocean.

Finally, I crest the bluff and it all looks promising as I swing left and savour the onshore wind, admiring the tiny native wildflowers that exist, if only barely, on the slopes and wondering what insects pollinate them, because the bees and other winged creatures have long ago been blown away by the persistent sea breezes.

I look down and there it is, the arch I’d noted yesterday during research.  Gary’s words come back to haunt me.  “It’s very steep”.  Indeed, it is, it’s no place for a bike there so I scramble on down on a trail where I would have loved my walking poles but, of course, they’re not to hand, literally.

It’s step by slow step; this is grade 4/5 stuff, not for the unfit or faint of heart.  The further down the more dramatic it becomes.  It’s one of the great seascapes of Australia.  A huge colourful cliff, a narrow bay awash with strange iridescent yellow/green rocks and then the arch on the left hand side being constantly tormented by the angry seas, at times so big they actually go over the top of the arch.  It’s mesmerizing.  You don’t know where to look, it takes over your brain, tormenting it with so many attractions in one spot.  This is the “scenic” of which Gary spoke.

I also realise I’ve been here before.  Before I was into photography, before I became a keen bushwalker, before I became a cyclist, about six decades had passed since I was last here.

Up or down, either is tough here and you won’t be making it without stopping regularly.  I spend about 20 minutes at the base, mesmerised by the grandeur of it all and so pleased I got to record it with favourable weather and seas, in one of their grander moods. High cirrus and big seas make a lovely combination, one suggesting calm and the other, mayhem.

Eventually I looked up and realised it was time to climb the rough narrow unmade track to the top, and it takes time, pausing to breathe in more oxygen than I was capable of while moving.  All the time the roar is taunting you from behind, trying to capture your attention still.

At the summit a couple have come along and I get them to take a picture of me, so few do I have.  They’re just about to head down so I pass on a few pointers before heading off….slowly.  There are bits of track here and there that are rideable, and just as many not.  Way below another group of rocks is defying the watery onslaught, foam splashing all over as the wash rears up and over.  It’s a timeless scene, yet time is the key.

I pull up at a bench seat where Gary sits to shoot the whales with his new camera.  He told me he takes a large umbrella and tripod up here these days so he doesn’t have to move much.  Judging by his profile, I can understand why.  The occasional beer is not unknown to him.

The next feature is a massive, semi-eroded pillar, only half detached, its deep brown colour contrasting with the blues and greens all around it.  It evokes power and mystery; it’s so unlike anything else here.  What geological event caused the situation?

Way down below, the lines of swells seem more organized than before and there’s an attempt by some hardy grasses to grow, buffeted by the natural elements as they are.  They’ve won over half the rock but other areas are denied to them.  The stalemate continues.

I clamber down the slope on a trail even less distinct that the previous one and it’s just as steep, just a few degrees off needing a rope.  One slip could really ruin your day!

Beneath the grass covered rocky outcrop there’s another arch in the making.  The salt water has made its way through a crevice and explodes every so often right through before thrashing around on the land side.  There’s a sort of disjointed harmony to it all.

Gary told me about the man he bought the camera off.  He goes down and lays on the grass for hours waiting for that timeless shot of a seabird coming back with prey attached to its claws.  He’s got everything from Brahminy kites to sea eagles.  Years of patience will do that for you.

I’m back on the “main” trail and climbing.  This is the bit where I really don’t want my bike.  It’s narrow, badly rutted, hard to get a foothold and you’re trying to manoeuvre a bike as well and it’s all uphill.  Easy going it’s not!  I can’t even see the top of the ascent because the trail rolls over near the summit.  The couple who took my photo have long since passed me and are well into the descent somewhere on the far side.

There’s more cliffs and Diamond Head just visible on the horizon but the route has moved away and now the vastness of the hinterland becomes the main feature.  Still, there’s more slope to get up until, finally, I’ve made it.

I spoke with an American couple just before the summit and they come from Washington State and we briefly exchanged notes as I said I’d been to Multnomah Falls.  He said the trail was good on the other side, the descent to Diamond Head.  I hoped he was right.

Transpires that he was and I’m ever so grateful because now, at last, there’s some justification for the mountain bike.  I get comfortable and swoop down the trail to Diamond Head, quickly passing the old couple and, in no time at all, I reach Diamond Head Caravan Park and I know it’s all road from here.

The only catch is I get more and more desperate to have a comfort stop.  Wind is pushing my belly in all directions and now it’s painful just sitting on the seat.  I’m forced to pull up and empty my stomach and feel fortunate there’s soft leaves at hand.  The relief is palpable and I now make my way to the real toilet, which is where the story came in.

Wondrous Windjana

                           WONDROUS WINDJANA

It was first on the list of my destinations after leaving Broome.  Since I hadn’t done much homework it actually took a lot longer than I thought to get there; around about 4 hours in fact; but of course I turned that into at least six after I stopped to photograph a tree and a sunset.

It was the following day before I reached Windjana and it certainly delivers as soon as you arrive, with the massive cliffs rising from the plain dating from the Devonian Period, when only sea creatures inhabited the earth.  No crocs to worry about then!

The entrance to the gorge is exciting.  Looking at the cliffs you’d imagine you’d have to walk up the stream to get into it but no, there’s a small cave-like entrance about 20 metres long that you slip through and, hey presto, you’re there.

It’s a broad expanse that awaits you and you’re quickly onto river sand after signs reminding you of the crocs and also taunting your curiousity to find a fossilized nautiloid in the rock (I found it).

If you’ve ever wondered what seeing a crocodile in the wild would be like then pencil in Windjana.  On one bank in the space of 100 metres there would have been twenty, and then there were more on the “tourist” side.

I wondered whether or not it was the knowledge I had about the Johnson River croc or just their posture; whatever it was, you’re just not intimidated by them as you are by the estuarine crocs.

For starters, they’re not gliding towards you with both eyes focused!

No, by the time I finished the gorge walk, I felt quite at home with them.

In fact, I can boast I even went swimming in croc infested waters!

Okay, so it was a little upstream (about 1 km) from where the crocs actually were (well, the ones you can see anyway) but I was the only one who did venture in.  Bunch of wimps.

The walk is listed as 2 hours return.  If you’re snap happy and want to push the boundaries a little, you can easily turn it into four hours.

It’s a pleasant place and the further you venture along the chasm the quieter it becomes; anything to get away from the screeching flock of corellas at the main pool.

After a while you start to encounter boabs on the lower slopes and a pretty yellow flowering tree.  The trail follow the creek and curves in an “s” shape until the end is reached, designated by no sign, just where one encounters a wall of reeds.

However, no hardy bushwalker would be detained by a few stalks so I battered my way onward till I reached a dry stream bed running in from the side and followed it down to the river again and it was near here that I crossed over and came down the other side.

The only prints were those of a horse that had been past in the last day or two, but no humans had ventured on this side though the water was just shin high where I crossed.

Coming back I roughly knew where I could cross and, apart from dropping one shoe in the water, made it safely before I went in for a dip.  The water is just beautiful and so refreshing, it’s no wonder Paul (someone I’d met earlier) spent so much time in!

So, a wonderful morning came to an end, but there would be more adventures later.

   GOLDEN DAYS

 Words and pics by Ian Smith                  

My joy at being back in the motorhome and having a cup of tea knew no bounds; I salivated over every warm mouthful and relaxed, thinking of the morrow and a walk with Terry.

The third day dawned and it was the day I was going to Gleniffer Falls, somewhere beyond my campsite on Never Never Creek.  I hoped he wouldn’t turn up on time (7 a.m.) as the winter chill penetrated my clothing but, lo, there he was and with two passengers.  My hope of stalling him with a cup of tea dissipated and I hastily started packing.

               

                

                                                        Never Never Creek

He had Ben, a P.E. teacher at Dorrigo who is his next door neighbour and his grandson Charlie aboard.  So we clambered into the 2WD and, soon after, wished we were in a 4WD when we drove up the track to Cliff’s place, a strange assortment of edifices in various states of disrepair strewn across a bare patch of land and accompanied by abandoned motor vehicles.

Cliff, a man in his eighties, was there to greet us and was decidedly uninterested in my handshake and introduction as he sought to find out why Terry was a day early.  That hurdle over, he later wondered why Terry was locking his car as he figured that if we didn’t return in a couple of days he could look forward to adding to his car collection.

        

Cliff's Collection

We set off downhill to the creek and then turned left and started clambering over rocks, an act that didn’t cease for the next 7 hours.

            

                     Ben and Charlie taking a break

There are no trails here, no tracks to follow, just a seriously stony river not anxious to give up its secrets.  After a time I started asking Terry, he of the GPS, how far we’d gone and how long had it taken.  It must have sounded like the “are we there yet Mum?” that children are wont to cry but Terry was kind to me.  I was a bit shattered when I discovered that, after an hour, we hadn’t even gone a kilometre up the creek.

As each succeeding hour passed, and we digressed up a side creek, my legs started to tire as I scanned the horizon for the famous gorge that everyone else swims through but Terry said we could circumvent.  Finally it was visible and the nimble among us scouted ahead to see how bad it was.  Turns out it was a little too tricky to navigate so we took Terry’s diversion up the side of the seriously steep bank and scrambled our way skyward.

               

                      Charlie and Terry looking for a route around the canyon

At times the virgin route seemed almost impassable but, encouraged by Terry’s assurance, we soldiered on and pushed upstream before descending again to what I thought was Gleniffer Falls; but, no, it was a point from which you can view Gleniffer Falls.

                    

                                  The impressive Gleniffer Falls

I had been warned I may not be impressed but the opposite was the case.  After scrambling up a side chute of what I thought had been Gleniffer Falls, I gazed in awe at the distant spectacle of multiple falls in succession cascading off the distant mountain range. There, indeed, were the hallowed cascades.  I’d never realised just how high they were.  Ben proffered they were the highest in Australia but I ventured that someone had done the exercise and, accordingly, Wallaman was listed as the longest single drop in Australia though Wollomombi is claimed to be by other sources.  That still didn’t make Gleniffer any less impressive; for me, they are one of the best falls I’ve ever seen.

Sadly, to get up close to them really requires an overnight journey by the truly fit or an abseil off the cliff, neither idea holding any attraction for me.  All too soon it was time to head back, Terry of the time piece a little concerned that it had taken us 4 ½ hours so far and we’d only travelled a shade over 3 kms, which was a reflection on (a) how many photos I’d taken but, more seriously, (b) how rugged it was.

            

                                                            Golden waters in a side stream

As we trekked back, finding an easier route around the canyon, the pace was much quicker; after all, I’d already seen the gold I sought.  It had been in the side stream and, later, in Never Never as well.  The afterglow of the sun on high dashed itself on the gentle waters and there had been the enchanting gold, below the corrugation of ripples that fanned out from the base of a cascade.

               

                        The view was always special

With the increased pace came fatigue and I was the first to stumble, something I did three times and Terry five; trouble was my first and third stumbles were worse than any of Terry’s and my shin and back suffered accordingly, the rocks having re-affirmed their lack of give.  After not quite 2 ½ hours we were back, always with the feeling that Ben and Charlie could well have been home and showered in front of the telly if it hadn’t been for the old farts.

Still, it had been another memorable day, one I won’t repeat, but that didn’t make it any the less unforgettable, and I had found gold.

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.