West
of Moruya there is a range of rocky ridges that catch the eye from
many directions. Although only 600 metres high, their character
causes them to stand out from the circumferent forested ridges so
visible are they from the surrounding coastal plains. These rocky
ridges are the Donovan fault line, a 15 kilometre stretch of steep,
rocky ridges of volcanic origin carved through by deep creeks into
steep sided gorges.
On a
topographic map the area presents as an unroaded stretch of green -
rare in the very tamed landscape that is southern NSW - bisected only
by the winding blue lines of creeks and rivers and offering
tantalising images of steep sided peaks described by the close and
tortuous contour intervals.
For
anyone whose passion is adventure in wild places, this wilderness
compels exploration and this exploration must necessarily be done on
foot; and so we found ourselves trudging up a fire trail carrying
overnight backpacks on a reconnaissance trip into the area. I don't
usually do "reconnaissance trips" preferring to prepare
well and simply "do" the trip, but I had no idea what to
expect of access roads, vegetation and ease or difficulty of travel,
so this initial trip would answer some of those questions while also
travelling through some scenic and rugged terrain.
Within
an hour of leaving my mind began the gnawing process of undermining
forward progress: the pack felt heavy, the sun was hot, I was moving
so slowly, the road was steep and my feet were sliding out from under
me, and on and on it went. The same thoughts that have assuaged me
for the three decades that I have been adventuring in wild places. I
thought it a wonder I managed to get anything done so strong is the
initial desire to desist. Strangely, as we walked along the fire
road back to the car on our second day out, hour nine on the go
quickly approaching hour ten, my mind was blank, completely blank,
and I wondered if the reason for these gruelling tests of endurance
is, at its most basic level, a simple desire to still the
interminable chatter of the mind.
After
some hours, we rested atop a ridge above a 300 metre descent to Burra
Creek. We had caught glimpses of one of the rocky peaks and among
more rounded ridge lines, it's outlines were appealing. Walking down
to the creek was easy, near the bottom we dropped into a side creek
to avoid a short cliff line and found ourselves beside the clear
running Burra Creek where it carves through the Donovan fault.
We had
only four kilometres until we planned to camp but it was a slow four
kilometres. Vegetation along the banks of the creek was so dense as
to be almost impenetrable and recent floods had pushed over many
trees all of which faced towards us and had to be clambered over,
under or through. There were, however, occasional patches of easy
travel as we walked over rock slabs or along short distances of river
gravel. These were few, however, as the creek was running high after
a wet winter and spring. I lost track of how many times we took our
shoes off to wade across the creek and then stopped again to put them
back on. For a while we walked in the creek in plastic sandals but
the water was deep and fast moving and this was not much easier.
Nearing
our planned camp location, Doug managed to hop on slippery river
stones across the penultimate crossing but it was a step too far for
my short legs. He offered to take my hand and help me across and I
got my leading foot across before teetering with a loss of momentum
and slipping off into waist deep water thus obviating the many times
I had taken my shoes off to keep them dry.
Soon
after, we found a camp-site on the river bank, swam in warm clear
water to wash the sweat and grime of the day off and settled down to
a well earned cup of tea.
We had
a little drizzle overnight. Just enough to wet the tent and the
bush, and the morning brought low fog hanging over the river that
would later burn off. Our goal was to cross a low saddle between the
Burra and Coondella Creek drainages and we set off hopefully at 7 am.
Above
camp, the vegetation was extremely dense, thick trailing vines,
cobblers peg, large leaved thick stalked cabbage type plants that
reached over our heads; in short all kinds of noxious invasive weeds.
Simply walking through the herbage was a struggle as the vines
wrapped around our legs and waist, there were boulders and holes to
stumble on, and fallen logs hidden under a mat of greenery. We
clambered over trees, crawled under trees, stumbled over boulders,
and dragged long mats of vines around our waists as we walked. It
was hellish and slow.
It
took us about two hours to reach the saddle that was a mere kilometre
from camp. Suddenly, the alluring green space on the map with no
roads was not quite so appealing. We had many kilometres to travel
and doubts about getting out in one day began to surface. My
chattering mind awoke again.
I had
spent some time the night before carefully studying the map and
plotting a route that avoided very steep climbs but now we knew that
steep slopes would be the only ones we could travel with some kind of
expediency so we quickly reworked our route.
We
managed to descend the kilometre to Coondella Creek much more quickly
by walking in the creek itself. This also presented challenges where
a single fallen tree could hold us up for several minutes as we
climbed through its branches, but, travel was definitely easier and
we arrived at Coondella Creek in under an hour.
It was
a pleasure to wade across Coondella Creek and cool our legs and feet
before walking up a steep ridge to a high point overlooking Diamond
Creek. On steep slopes, there were only large eucalpyts and very
little undergrowth and travel was simple. Below us we caught
glimpses into rocky and precipitous Diamond Creek and several
waterfalls could be seen through the trees.
After
a few kilometres, we dropped down a spur ridge to Diamond Creek
arriving right near a lovely deep and cool swimming hole and a
delightful waterfall. Unlike Burra Creek, the water was cold and
refreshing. We swam, ate and filled our water bottles for the long
walk up and over Coondella Trig.
And
then we walked. A long 400 metre climb was followed by a gradual
descent of many kilometres down a dusty dry fire road. In other
conditions, the walk over Coondella Trig would have been pleasant as
the forest was open eucalpytus and to either side of us the ridge
dropped steeply away into a blue haze of gum forest covered ridges
with higher mountains to our west and the blue ocean to the east.
But we had been travelling about 7 hours before the start of the
ascent and had three hours of road walking to do.
There
is a zen like state one enters when you have been walking for hours
and there are many kilometres to go. There is a determination to
finish the trip, to keep walking, simply putting one foot in front of
the other. The mind, normally so insistent and persistent just
quietly slips into somnolence and there is nothing but each foot
fall, the sound of cicadas screeching in the bush, the occasional
rustle of light wind in the trees. It is as near as I will ever come
to the sublime, a kind of walking meditation only reached once a
certain level of effort or time has been breached.
I have
done this walk so many times before on long climbing trips and ski
traverses. And each moment captures such an evocative memory:
cresting the final ridge above camp at 10 pm as darkness steals
silently across the valley, or making camp on a high mountain ridge
after a long day skiing over mountains and across glaciers to finally
dig a tiny tent platform into a ridge at 3,000 metres as dusk
obscures the precipitousness of camp.
Or, in
this instance, simply walking slowly, yet purposefully, down ridges,
to cross small creeks and finally return to that other life, the one
lived in the shadows of the wilderness, where one is not quite alive,
just merely subsisting until it is time again to be lost in order to
be found.
Soar,
eat ether, see what has never been seen; depart, be lost but climb.
Edna St Vincent Millay.
