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.

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!

A holiday in France

BETWEEN HEAVEN AND HELL

We’d packed up and were organized, even managing time to take pictures of our hosts, the effervescent Mary-Rose and the unflappable ex-eye doctor George, in their pleasant garden.

Mary-Rose had lost her number one ranking on tripadvisor and was continually stressing out about that fact because her one low ranking was written by a New Yorker who’d never actually stayed there.  Apparently the American had not been able to pay a deposit and Mary-Rose had booked someone else.

Mary-Rose was pleading with us to rank her highly even as we lurched out the gate with our suitcases to catch a cab to the airport to get our rental car.

We found our rental car place but no-one was there so I raced off to another location 15 minutes away but was told to go back, someone would be there.  Imagine my shock when not only was there no attendant, but Rosemarie, Cheryl and the luggage were all in absentia.

Then I saw someone heading underground down a chute into a well lit space so I followed.  Lo and behold, there was the desk, the girls and the luggage.

Only half an hour lost, not to worry, get the keys to the Citroen Picasso and we were on our way........except, that is, for the GPS.  My Garmin, that I’d spent a reasonable sum on downloading European maps, wouldn’t work out of the Citroen’s cigarette lighter point.

So I went and had spit at the hire car counter and, after I calmed down, they very kindly offered me one for nothing.  I was pleased until I tried to type in the address and found the lower row of keys didn’t work; well, not in the car anyway, because when I took it back to the counter it worked fine.

I returned to the car and it wouldn’t work again, despite everyone trying it so it was back to the counter once for the same result.  Eventually, after wearing a path up and down the chute I got the girl to come and try it in the car.  Amazingly, it didn’t work for her either.  No-one has any idea why this should be so but she kindly replaced it and, one and a half hours late, we finally started moving...well, that was after we got the handbrake off.  You see, Citroen have found some weird way of making it electronic and putting a button on the dash and you have to have everything in the right order before it releases.  That only took us five minutes.

Paris was surprisingly busy with traffic because it was Sunday and we wasted more time bypassing a minor accident and other traffic snarls before finally reaching the flat verdant countryside, interspersed here and there with sparkling yellow fields of canola.

The miles drifted by in smooth comfort and we managed a food stop with ease, sampling some local cooked ham that was delicious before stepping out again into the freezing cold of spring.  Don’t believe me?  Minutes later we had a flurry of snow on the windscreen.

I turned off the motorway, aiming for Flavigny, an historic village but, en route, just 8 kilometres short, we stumbled on something even better.  A ruin of a town lay before us; across the river were two crumbling towers that would have been condemned in Australia.  A frightening vertical crack had split the brickwork apart and the demise of the towers seemed imminent yet they stood, albeit with warning signs attached.

The rest of the buildings seemed in various states of decay as we braved the freezing conditions to see these ruins.  I was in photography heaven except the light, what little there was of it, barely made it through the European haze.

It was about this time we lost Cheryl.  Rosemarie was ill attired for the conditions and required more clothing from the car but, as we turned around and recrossed the Pont Joly, Cheryl was nowhere to be seen.  We walked back to the car and got the extra layers and then moved the car across to the main part of the town in an obscure carpark.  Still no Cheryl.

We made our way to the main square but Rosemarie was desperate for coffee....actually, anything warm would have done, while I went searching for Cheryl.  In and out of alleys, stumbling over cobblestones, gazing across the river but Cheryl was nowhere to be found.

I knew I’d have to return to where the car was parked and could almost see the exact spot from where I stood but she wasn’t there.  Eventually I walked all the way back anyway, just to be sure and, lo and behold, there was Cheryl on the other side of the street, stressed out as she had never been before on a holiday; her only comfort was that she knew I always returned to where we’d last seen each other.

The relief on her face was palpable and she vowed never to stray with her camera again but, truth be known, both parties were at fault.  But now it was all rejoicing as we enjoyed our repast in the cafe and recklessly attacked a lemon crepe.

The town, Semur-en-Auxois, was actually on my list of things-to-see, so when I was offered a half hour free while the girls finished their chatting, I bolted out of the cafe and was away, the rugged architecture of this ancient town unfolding before me in a wondrous variety of angles, antique ironmongery, bas reliefs, half timbered shops, wonky tiles and unkempt cobbles.

“The people of Semur take great pleasure in meeting strangers.”  This wonderful sentiment, inscribed in 1552 on an archway leading to the oldest part of the village, purportedly emphasizes the attitude of the residents of Semur-en-Auxois.  The city itself was incorporated in the Duchy of Burgundy in 1050.

Narrow lanes curved here and there and well worn staircases twisted in seemingly ridiculous directions until you saw the even more ridiculous situation of some of the houses.  It was all centred around the river though, and charming brick bridges forded the stream but, in the distance, a towering viaduct type structure that spanned the river Armancon seemed at odds with their profile and drew my attention.

The icy wind hurried me along as I sought an optimum viewpoint but failed to take the warmth out of my enthusiasm for the task.  Every ten metres another aspect emerged, colours flaunting themselves before my eyes, emerging from gardens or draped over walls until it was sadly time to return to the car.  I marked this as a place to one day make another pilgrimage to when the weather afforded a kinder face than I was experiencing.

So we pushed on to Flavigny, the original village I’d meant to visit but we only had a couple of minutes here before we decided to head for Dijon and our accommodation for the night.  Unfortunately we misunderstood “Miss Direction”, our GPS, and took a wrong turn but we got to see some countryside that hardly any tourists ever get to see before we got on track again.

It was dusk when we arrived and booked in and night had arrived by the time we left for town to have some dinner and parked in an underground carpark.  The bitter wind was relentless as we searched for a restaurant that was open and were glad to get inside the first one we encountered.

In transpired that English was a bit of a problem here but the ever so happy waiter did his best and his constant smile seemed to overcome the language barriers.  The girls ordered a beef dish while I went with the duck.  While they thoroughly enjoyed theirs the duck was appalling, putting up a determined effort not to be scarred by the knife I continually drew across it.  “Tough” was a word I used many times with selected adjectives until I finally gave up half way through the repast.

Not only that, they didn’t have hot chocolate which was another disappointment.  At least we’d put something in our stomachs though and so we headed off to get the car.  As we rounded the corner and looked down into the bowels of the carpark it was hard not to notice the metal shutter screens blocking the entry and exit.

In the cold reality of a freezing night, we wouldn’t be able to get our car out it seemed, so we went off searching for a cab, despite Rosemarie constantly suggesting we get our restaurant to call us one.  Eventually we lucked out with a local driver who spoke not one word of English and, despite giving him the wrong address initially, sanity eventually prevailed and we made it home around 11 o’clock.  It had been awful on the streets of a town you don’t know trying to find a way home.  It was a night when we found that hell doesn’t have to be a hot place!