Bushwalk in the Blue Mountains

Sometimes being a Kook feels exactly like being a complete doofus.


A weekend hike in the mountains

There is a mountain range running north-south along the east coast of Australia called the Blue Mountains- the locals just call them the Blueys. These aren't tall imposing mountains like the Rockies- the highest point is only 1200 meters (~2500 feet)- but these modest mountains are craggy. The terrain is rugged and filled with gorges, sandstone cliffs, and pockets of temperate rain forest; the mountains are so rough that the first British explorers deemed the mountains "impassable". As a mountain biker and a rock climber, I've been looking forward to exploring these mountains. I'm living near the base of the range, so I see them from a distance everyday; they taunt me as I go to work.

The Blueys from a distance

I decided to head into the Blueys for a hike on Sunday. My office-mate Sebastian loaned me a book describing good hikes around Sydney (or "bushwalks"), and I quickly found a hike that appealed to me. The book says: "The hike down from Bowen Mountain is graded 'hard' because of the scramble down the steep rocky gully, requiring you to wriggle under fallen branches, climb over boulders, and push through thick bush. Keep your wits about you, as there generally isn't an established trail to follow." Sounds good to me, though I should have paid more attention to that last bit. (See what I did there? That was foreshadowing. Again.)

Blue Mountains National Park

I don't have a car, so I rode my bike to the trailhead. It was a 30 km ride from Richmond, up relatively steep but mostly paved roads to the top of the range. I gained about 800 meters of elevation, so this wasn't terribly hard, but it wasn't easy. I was rewarded with nice views.

One of many sandstone outcroppings

My trusty mountain bike at the park entrance

I locked my bike to a sturdy tree, swapped my cycling shoes for trail runners, ate a banana, and started hiking down a fire road.

Red-back spiders like to make a home in shoes left on the ground

These forests burn frequently, and most of the trees showed bark scars from small surface fires.

The hike starts at the top of a rocky outcropping and goes straight down a rocky gully to the Grose River. Apparently there used to be a metal wire strung down the gully to give hikers something to hang onto, but there's nothing like that now. It's steep, and there isn't really anything approaching a "trail" to follow. You just go down, towards the river.

This is steeper than it looks. If I had my climbing gear, I would have harnessed up and rappelled.

Really? I travel thousands of miles to the other side of the planet, go for a hike in a secluded mountain valley, and stumble across a Chicago Bulls hat? This was the first and only sign I saw of other human beings throughout the entire hike. I packed the hat out as trash.

After a few kilometers of down-climbing and bushwacking, I found the river. It was beautiful and totally secluded, without a sign of humans anywhere.

There lots of tropical birds along the river, including parrots, cockatoos, and kookaburras, which sound remarkably like laughing monkeys. I utterly failed to capture any pictures of these amazing birds, mostly because I am a terrible photographer. (If you see a good photo on this blog, Carrie took it.)

I was loving the adventurous nature of the hiking. There truly was no trail, so I hopped from boulder to boulder along the river, pushed my way through the forest, or army crawled under thorny bushes. There didn't seem to be any way to get lost- I just made my way down-stream, keeping the river on my right and the rocky cliffs on my left.

Sandstone cliffs like these are common in the Blueys.

Surprise! I get lost

I was expecting to stumble across a fairly large dirt or gravel road that would lead me back up to the ridge and my bike. According to the book, "This road was built to survey a dam site years ago; it was abandoned, leaving a disgraceful open gash which spills sediment into the river". While not exactly idyllic, it sounded big and obvious, so I just kept bushwacking my way downstream, enjoying myself. I periodically would take a bit of my sandwich or a swig of water while I was hiking. Soon my sandwich was gone and my bottle was empty... and all of a sudden I realized that I had been bushwacking along the river for a long time. Probably for too long. Had I missed the trail?

I got a bad feeling in my stomach as I came to realize just how isolated I was. I was alone, and I hadn't seen another human since I entered the mountains. No one else knew that I had gone hiking. I didn't have a proper map or anything particularly useful, like a survival kit or a compass (I left both in my apartment). The cartoon map in my book was entirely useless- it didn't show any features such as other trails or mountain peaks that I could use to determine my location. I had no more food or water, and while I was next to a big river, it was supposedly contaminated with giardia and I shouldn't drink it without treating the water (again, I left a filter and chlorine tablets in my apartment). What a doofus.

How far had I hiked since getting to the river? The book says it should be five kilometers, but I'm an American- I have no real sense of how far that is. I remembered running a 5k with Carrie, but I couldn't remember how long it took us (15 minutes? 20 minutes?). I was probably going a lot slower while bushwacking, so I convinced myself that the road must still be ahead of me. (It wasn't.)

I kept hiking for what felt like an eternity, trying to swallow my worry. I didn't have much other choice- I couldn't turn around because I didn't think I could find the rocky gully I had descended. Eventually, after what felt like an hour, I stumbled across another human sign.

I was sooo happy to see this. But it was pointing downstream- what did that mean?

This paddle was placed so obviously and intentionally that it must have had an intended message. It pointed downstream, so I assumed the message was "keep going downstream!". I kept going, counting my paces. After counting to 300, I turned around, went back to the paddle, and more thoroughly explored the forest in the area. There was a trail, and once I found it it was huge and obvious.

Wahoo!

But, this wasn't the trail I was looking for. It got me out of the forest and onto a road, but not the road I came in on. I jogged along the road, worried that I wouldn't find my bike before dark. I started to jog by farmhouses, and there was an older couple out front of one of these, caring for their horses. They gave me some good-natured ribbing about getting myself lost, and offered to give me a ride up to where I had left my bike. It turns out this was about 15 km away, so I happily accepted their offer. We chatted in the car- Mick and Jackie live in a city down the valley called Penrith, but they keep horses up in the mountains. Mick works as an environmental compliance officer; Jackie works in University administration. They were wonderfully friendly and cheerful. They said that I had made their day by giving them a chance to help a total stranger. It was such a heartwarming experience, that I almost didn't want to get out of the car. Eventually they dropped me off at my bike and I cycled home. I had been gone for 12 hours, and I was exhausted.

On the nature of Kooks

I've told this story in excruciating detail to set up the following thoughts. I acted like a total kook- I enthusiastically pursued a new experience without very much preparation, and I could have gotten into real trouble. Perhaps I should have delayed this trip until I had the chance to thoroughly research the route, buy the proper topo maps, and prepare the right supplies. But what fun would that have been? If everything had gone smoothly, this hike would have been entirely forgettable, and I wouldn't have the memory of the intense relief I felt when I saw the paddle, or the wonderful interaction I had with Mick and Jackie. My kookiness turned an average walk in the woods into a real adventure.