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.
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