THE HOMAGE

DOWN IN THE BLUEGUM FOREST

Walk in the Blue Mountains often enough and there’s a name that will crop up.  Blue Gum Forest.  No serious walker can avoid it, so the fact that I’d managed to not go there for 76 years indicates how serious I’d been.  For the seasoned hiker it’s usually part of a multi-day walk involving backpacks and sleeping out, something I’d also managed to avoid.  Still, I was aware of it and a small part of me always wanted to see it.

Plus, the place has history.  Could it have been coincidental then that I picked up a local paper and there was an article about Myles Dunphy.  For those of you unfamiliar with the name, his passion for nature was such that he carries the title, “The Father of Conservation”.

Born in 1891, the eldest of seven children, his escape was the bush.  The wilderness renewed his spirit, as it does for all those who indulge.  That’s what communing with nature can do for you.  In the year of the outbreak of World War 1 he formed a walking club in Katoomba; 12 years later he married and, in 1927, he was a foundation member of the Sydney Bush Walkers Club.  It’s then that the term “bush walker” was coined.

For the rest of his life he fought for the protection of natural areas, purchasing the lease on the land that contains the Blue Gum Forest in 1931 for 131 pounds with help from his friends; lobbying government and newspapers continually, mapping areas for conservation, aided by others and, eventually, the government finally allocated 156,676 acres for a national park in 1957, just one quarter of what the group wanted, but luckily it has since been expanded to the hoped for size and is today’s reality. 

Miles Dunphy Reserve, Oatley

A few years ago I walked in Myles Dunphy Reserve in the little known Sydney suburb of Oatley.  Somehow it evoked passion in me that nothing more major had ever been done for this icon of Australian conservation and his compatriots who have had far more impact on Australian society than others who got more publicity for much less.  The tens of thousands of tourists that flock regularly to the areas of the Blue Mountains should be more aware of just how fortunate they are to have had people of his ilk.

VIEW FROM PERRYS LOOKDOWN

So it was, as I gazed down from Perry’s Lookdown, named after the deputy surveyor general under Mitchell (or maybe an innkeeper), that thoughts of the Blue Gum Forest came to the fore.  It wasn’t that far away, surely; in fact it was right below me.  Maybe I’d have a go.  My house sit at Blackheath was for a fortnight, time was not an issue.

WIND ERODED CAVE

Just a few kilometres back at the Wind Eroded Cave I came upon a serious hiker, replete with overnight backpack.  He could answer my questions as I probed the difficulty of the stairway below Perry’s.  He said it was about three times further that the Golden Staircase.  I’d done that a few decades earlier, in the cold of winter, and remembered being stripped down to my singlet and sweating profusely when I reached the top.  Now, with dodgy knees and deep into old age, perhaps I shouldn’t go.

Resigned to not going, I nevertheless queried a lady at the Blackheath NPWS office a few days later.  She was optimistic.  “If you take your time and it’s not steps all the way.”  I decided right then and there it was time to get some walking poles, something I’d been considering for a couple of years.  She showed me some but suggested I go into Katoomba and check out the outdoors stores for some that were more economical.  Since the cheapest I was looking at here were comfortably over $200, I thought that was a good idea.

WALKING POLES AT LAST

At the Summit shop in Katoomba I came across a pair for only $69; that was more like it.  Then, one of the assistants said “The Blue Gum Forest is beautiful at the moment”.  Suddenly it became a commitment and I walked out with the poles, trying them out successfully the next day at Colliers Causeway.

The day after that it went pear shaped.  “Walking” the dog I was house sitting for, mounted on my bike, I managed to snap the chain.  It was my means of access to the trail head. 

There’s a bike man at Blackheath (by appointment only); there’s one at Katoomba (shop has closed); the only option was Wentworth.  Braving a mass of holiday traffic I called in, was told everything in the drive chain (cluster, sprockets, chain) needed replacing, but they put a new link in to get me out of trouble.  The bike worked fine.

The next day was perfect, clouds were in absentia, a decision was made.   Down the 9 kms to Perry’s Lookdown, remembering food, drink and walking poles.  It was time to pay homage to Mr. Dunphy.

GOING DOWN – AREA OF THE TWO FOOT STEPS

If there’s two things that get a mention from any walkers who’ve done the trek, it’s “The two foot steps” and, “it’s not all steps”.

I left the bike at Perrys, no need to lock it up, only bushwalkers come here. 

You don’t have to wait for steps, they start immediately.  Just how many are not recorded, but everyone says there are lots of them and we’re talking four figures.  I pass Perrys and Dockers Lookout, where the trail momentarily diverts inland to cross over the tiniest of creeks before swinging back to the dramatic descent through the cliffs.  Here the “two foot steps” became a reality.  I dreaded the thought of an ascent through here.  The trail was old, steps were worn and narrow and stretching my painful knees any further than necessary wasn’t something I was enjoying.

NOT THE EASIEST OF TRAILS

Confidence was also at a bit of a shortage and I blessed my decision to buy the poles.  Having something to lean on in tricky bits was a godsend.  At times it was so steep the trail all but disappeared, at another spot it vanished into the forest.

In time I got beneath the cliffs and moved into the forest; though soil was a bit thinner here on the slopes so the growth isn’t as prolific, though I did catch sight of one spiky sprig of wallum heath with a sprig of white flowers. 

THE SPRIG OF WALLUM HEATH

I’d been at it for over an hour, this listed 2 km trail, and not a sign of “the flat bits”.  Further down I came upon the tremendous job that NPWS are doing in putting in same size log steps.  The work must be so time consuming and is only achieved by utilizing helicopters to drop equipment in.

FLAT BITS AT LAST

At last, some flat bits.  They provide minimal respite and I’m seriously worried about how long it will take me to ascend.  The descent is the toughest I can ever recall.  I’m certain by now that the descent is further than 2 kms.  It has to be said that the popular websites are universally erroneous.  They’ve all said 2 kms, even the NPWS.

A lady runner who’d passed me earlier was on her way back.  I queried how long the descent had taken her.  “36 minutes” was the reply.  I’d almost hit the two hour mark.

I’m aiming for a large stand of Eucalyptus deanei trees on the junction of the Grose River and Govetts Creek and I finally reach a T-intersection where I can turn 600 metres to the Acacia Camp Ground, a popular haunt for overnighters.   At around 200 metres there’s a side trail.  It leads to the river which can clearly be heard.

It’s sublime; the forest reflected in the upstream pondage, rapids deflecting the flow in front of you and more drama leading to the distant dominant cliffs beyond.  I capture the scenes and head to Acacia.  Here, the sound of a banjo wafts through the still air.  Amazing, someone has brought an instrument here, I must shoot the source.

There’s a trio of small tents not far away and I head for them, only to discover that the banjo is merely recorded music playing through a speaker.  Yet, somehow, it’s so right here.  It belongs to three Asian youths and I fall into conversation.  Miles Dunphy is unknown to them so I explain that, without him and his ilk, camping may not have been possible here.  Such is the modern world that the phone comes out and they’re typing his name in immediately.  Somehow, I feel I’ve done something for Miles but, in truth, I’m probably only serving my ego.  Still, it feels good to know that his legend will live on through the next generation.

It’s time to return. At the intersection, where the sign says “2 kms”, I set my app to check the accuracy.  Now it’s up all the way.  First the occasional flat section.  I haven’t quite cleared it when the one kilometre notification is sounded.

The steps are relentless but I’m making reasonable progress.  I catch and pass a family who’d overtaken me on the way down.  They can’t believe the progress I’m making.  That’s okay, I can’t either.

Two kilometres passes by and it’s still a long way to the top.  I’m back in the land of the two foot steps but still making progress.  Every so often there’s a pause for refreshment.  Three kilometres is signalled as I near the plateau and it’s 3.24 when I get to the bike.  It’s taken me around 1 ½ hours, about half an hour less than the descent.  I had been passed multiple times going down but by no-one on the up, surely a reflection of the state of my knees and, strangely, I felt good, even though the ascent was over 2,000 feet. 

The poles had been a significant aid and I rode the 8 kms back in a satisfied manner until the last small incline.  It was there it hit me.  I could barely turn the pedals.  Maybe it had all been adrenaline after all.