Blue Mountains: March 28th to April 1st
Notes: For this blog I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to use your imagination, as neither my words nor their accompanying pictures will help your fully understand the beauty of this place. Also, as I write this blog with a pen in my notebook then type it later, people are referred to in different ways. In this blog, Elinor may also appear as Eli, Ellie, Elle, the Swede or Buster. Rachel might appear as Oxford. You'll get the idea.
One thing that is true about the Blue Mountains in that they are big. And, it has to be said, somewhat blue. This phenomenon is apprently caused by eucalyptus mist hanging in the air above the forest. The train ride to Katoomba, the mountain town that is my destination, takes under two hours from Sydney but might as well be a world away. I arrive late afternoon, bright eyed if not bushy tailed. The air has that deliciously clear quality brought by altitude and a shining sun that illuminates Katoomba, a small Wild West looking town packed with second hand book shops, curiosity stores, and art deco cafes. The steeply sloping main stree leads to my hostel, a large converted dance hall that will give you warm place to sleep, a kitchen to cook in, and a large amount of sofas to lounge on for ten quid a night.
A few hours of relative lonliness I fill with bed making and food shopping are ended by Rachel, an eighteen year old Scot, also travelling alone. We meet on the sofas and shyly exchange small talk for a while, before we are joined by two more solo travellers, thirty five year old Gizmo, and Peter, an older man taking a five week vacation from his wife. Conversation becomes comfortable and enlightening -Gizmo served a year and a half in Iraq and Afghanistan,, Rachel is going to Oxford University in the autumn- and the evening falls away into night.
I wake in the morning slightly disgruntled -one of the women in my dorm is a regular juke box when she sleeps- and rise to a warm but greay day. Rachel and Gizmo and I eat breakfast together before Gizmo departs for New Zealand, and Rachel and I head out on one of the Blue Mountains' many bush walks. We stroll for twenty minutes down to the Three Sisters, a trio of giant rock forations at the edge of the simple enormous Jamison Valley and it's many sheer cliffed mountains. It is quite a view. Down the left hand side of the Sisters, nine hundred stairs plummet us into the rainforest. We walk for perhaps two hours before our plans are cut short by the path dropping away before us into a landslide. Apparently there is a way around this problem but as we are both British and believe firmly in Health and Safety, we turn on our tails and head back the other way, past the bottom of the stairs and onto the leafy, rocky path to Leura Falls.
Rachel, it transpires, is excellent conversation, and we cover all manner of subjects as we trek through the trees, lingering on philosophy, a shared passion. We reach a waterfall and are confronted by steeply ascending steps, unavoidable and seemingly endless. As we climb, the water cascades past us, countless mini-waterfalls and crystal clear pools lining our path. The stairs, however, are merciless. Up and up and up we go, over wooden steps, metal ladders, natural rock, all on a mission to kill my calf muscles and reduce me to tears. After quite some time and a good deal of whinging, I ask a man bouncing down the track past us if we have far to go to the top. He stops, looks at me for a moment, then starts laughing before continuing on his way down the stairs, still chuckling to himself. All hope drains from me as I turn back to the cliff. Here we go again. Eventually, mercifully, we reach the top and a view almost worth climbing up for. Back at the hostel Rachel and I eat buns and sit on the sofas moaning softly and gazing forlornly at our aching feet.
The most magical thing about hostels is that they get you to socialise with people you would never otherwise have had the opportunity to meet. Tonight Rachel introduces me to a cheeky, friendly and energetic boy, our age, called Alex. The three of us bond with Ryan and Dan, two lads from Leeds, over a game of pool and suddenly there's a group of us, talking as if we'd known each other for years. There is something about their scruffy outfits, northern accents, beards, and the vast amount of beer they consume that makes me underestimate Ryan and Dan. After several hours of conversation it becomes clear that they are both very interesting, knowing huge amounts about music, sport, films and the like. Ryan turns out to know something about pretty much everything, and is immense fun to talk and listen to. I enjoy the feeling of having my initial judgements proved wrong and go to bed with a smile on my face.
The next day I rise later than usual and eat breakfast with Oxford. My legs, sadly unfit, do not think walking is a very good idea. One must always obey ones muscles and so I decide to pass the day with a stroll to the Three Sisters with Alex, lunch out with Jess who is up on a field trip with uni, and postcard writing. In the evening, Ryan returns from a mammoth walk and Rachel from waterfall spotting, and we resume sitting around and chatting- practically a sport in Katoomba. Another new friend in the form of Gill, a thirty year old North Londener, is comandeered and a decision to walk down at 9pm and see the Three Sisters lit up is reached. Gill invites a new roomate, twenty one year old Elinor from Sweden, to join us and as we walk down, I marvel a the speed with which bonds form. Ryan strolls behind, chatting to Gill, Rachel and Ellie walk ahead discussing their trips, and Alex and I quietly tell one another the rudest jokes we know.
The Sisters, lit by a huge orange light, look as magestic as ever, but it is the valley, lit sparingly by a full moon, that makes the view worth gasping for. The trees are a deep blue and we all gaze at the stars above them and wonder at the sheer size of this place.
Back at the hostel the six of us sit and talk until after midnight. Six people who would never have sat talking back at home. Some go to bed but Ellie, Alex and I laugh together until 2am, at which point it is most certainly time to give ourselves some rest in preperation for a long walk the next day.
Even meeting Sir Ian McKellen two years ago did not feel more like being in Lord Of The Rings than walking the National Pass the next day. A short train ride to Wentworth Falls brings us to the start of the walk. The entire day is like a scene from some beautifully shot adventure movie and several times I am called upon to loudly sing the Indiana Jones theme tune. Gill, Elinor, Alex, Ryan and I all attend the walk which starts, as so many do in the Blue Mountains, with a steep descent down stairs. Being Australia, these aren't just any stairs. They edge down the side of a waterfall- sparkling, animated water, wet stepping stones, creeping vines, the whole package. The bottom seems to have been created simply as a photo opportunity, it's hard to keep a grin off my face.
The walk climbs halfway back up the cliff face and we begin walking a path worn into the rock, half way up, warm sun filling the valley for a picture postcard view. The rock towers above, at one point hollowed out into an immense bowl, lik standing at the bottom of some godly kiln. The path stumbles on and the Swede and I chat of beer and the advantages of living in a society that accepts midday drinking. Suddenly, out of nowhere, comes our first view of Wentworth Falls. English, full to the bursting with words though it is, simply does not have enough adjectives to describe this sort of vista. It is awesome in the old fashioned sense and as we clamber over to the mid-section of the falls, I feel a strange sense of achievment.
We sit for some time, Alex and I chomping on pizza rolls, everyone enjoying packed lunch, before the Wentworth Falls photo shoot begins. This is a half-hour long exercise in which we all strike various ridiculous poses standing by the falls, and spend a long time trying to get photos of the water itself that do the pictures from our eyes justice- an impossibility of course, but always worth a short (no pun intended). And then it is time, once again, for a load of bloody steps. What else? This is the Blue Mountains afters all; the trailblazers here had clearly never seen June Whitfield in the highly convincing Stannah Stair Lift adverts or they would have installed one right away. These particular stairs -if you care, which I certainly don't half way up them- are cut into the cliff face in a dramatic fashion, and I smile weakly at first the still breathtaking view and second the hordes of significantly fitter hikers bounding happily past me. Bastards.
Gill, angel of the North (London) coaxes me up and then we are at the top, gorgeous of course, and site of much more photo taking. I look at the people passing us downwards with pity in m eyes. Poor fools. They have no idea that there are twice as many steps at the other end to come up.
A 2.4km walk through the broken sunlight of the Darwin bush trail (supposedly once walked by the great man himself) returns us to the railway station. Later, after checking out and bidding farewell to Gill and Oxford; Eli, Alex, Ryan and I catch our train back to Sydney. We become that group of people that everyone hopes they don't have to sit next to on trains as we talk continuously and loudly, laugh without restraint, and argue playfully over topics ranging from yawning to what hell looks like. We hug godbye at Central Station and arrange to meet, and a suggestion from Alex and I, for dinner the following night. Standing alone waiting for my bus back to Cogee, warm Sydney breeze blowing and music in my ears, I feel a ridiculously strong hit of happiness. Even the most beautiful places, it seems, can be made more so by good company.
One thing that is true about the Blue Mountains in that they are big. And, it has to be said, somewhat blue. This phenomenon is apprently caused by eucalyptus mist hanging in the air above the forest. The train ride to Katoomba, the mountain town that is my destination, takes under two hours from Sydney but might as well be a world away. I arrive late afternoon, bright eyed if not bushy tailed. The air has that deliciously clear quality brought by altitude and a shining sun that illuminates Katoomba, a small Wild West looking town packed with second hand book shops, curiosity stores, and art deco cafes. The steeply sloping main stree leads to my hostel, a large converted dance hall that will give you warm place to sleep, a kitchen to cook in, and a large amount of sofas to lounge on for ten quid a night.
A few hours of relative lonliness I fill with bed making and food shopping are ended by Rachel, an eighteen year old Scot, also travelling alone. We meet on the sofas and shyly exchange small talk for a while, before we are joined by two more solo travellers, thirty five year old Gizmo, and Peter, an older man taking a five week vacation from his wife. Conversation becomes comfortable and enlightening -Gizmo served a year and a half in Iraq and Afghanistan,, Rachel is going to Oxford University in the autumn- and the evening falls away into night.
I wake in the morning slightly disgruntled -one of the women in my dorm is a regular juke box when she sleeps- and rise to a warm but greay day. Rachel and Gizmo and I eat breakfast together before Gizmo departs for New Zealand, and Rachel and I head out on one of the Blue Mountains' many bush walks. We stroll for twenty minutes down to the Three Sisters, a trio of giant rock forations at the edge of the simple enormous Jamison Valley and it's many sheer cliffed mountains. It is quite a view. Down the left hand side of the Sisters, nine hundred stairs plummet us into the rainforest. We walk for perhaps two hours before our plans are cut short by the path dropping away before us into a landslide. Apparently there is a way around this problem but as we are both British and believe firmly in Health and Safety, we turn on our tails and head back the other way, past the bottom of the stairs and onto the leafy, rocky path to Leura Falls.
Rachel, it transpires, is excellent conversation, and we cover all manner of subjects as we trek through the trees, lingering on philosophy, a shared passion. We reach a waterfall and are confronted by steeply ascending steps, unavoidable and seemingly endless. As we climb, the water cascades past us, countless mini-waterfalls and crystal clear pools lining our path. The stairs, however, are merciless. Up and up and up we go, over wooden steps, metal ladders, natural rock, all on a mission to kill my calf muscles and reduce me to tears. After quite some time and a good deal of whinging, I ask a man bouncing down the track past us if we have far to go to the top. He stops, looks at me for a moment, then starts laughing before continuing on his way down the stairs, still chuckling to himself. All hope drains from me as I turn back to the cliff. Here we go again. Eventually, mercifully, we reach the top and a view almost worth climbing up for. Back at the hostel Rachel and I eat buns and sit on the sofas moaning softly and gazing forlornly at our aching feet.
The most magical thing about hostels is that they get you to socialise with people you would never otherwise have had the opportunity to meet. Tonight Rachel introduces me to a cheeky, friendly and energetic boy, our age, called Alex. The three of us bond with Ryan and Dan, two lads from Leeds, over a game of pool and suddenly there's a group of us, talking as if we'd known each other for years. There is something about their scruffy outfits, northern accents, beards, and the vast amount of beer they consume that makes me underestimate Ryan and Dan. After several hours of conversation it becomes clear that they are both very interesting, knowing huge amounts about music, sport, films and the like. Ryan turns out to know something about pretty much everything, and is immense fun to talk and listen to. I enjoy the feeling of having my initial judgements proved wrong and go to bed with a smile on my face.
The next day I rise later than usual and eat breakfast with Oxford. My legs, sadly unfit, do not think walking is a very good idea. One must always obey ones muscles and so I decide to pass the day with a stroll to the Three Sisters with Alex, lunch out with Jess who is up on a field trip with uni, and postcard writing. In the evening, Ryan returns from a mammoth walk and Rachel from waterfall spotting, and we resume sitting around and chatting- practically a sport in Katoomba. Another new friend in the form of Gill, a thirty year old North Londener, is comandeered and a decision to walk down at 9pm and see the Three Sisters lit up is reached. Gill invites a new roomate, twenty one year old Elinor from Sweden, to join us and as we walk down, I marvel a the speed with which bonds form. Ryan strolls behind, chatting to Gill, Rachel and Ellie walk ahead discussing their trips, and Alex and I quietly tell one another the rudest jokes we know.
The Sisters, lit by a huge orange light, look as magestic as ever, but it is the valley, lit sparingly by a full moon, that makes the view worth gasping for. The trees are a deep blue and we all gaze at the stars above them and wonder at the sheer size of this place.
Back at the hostel the six of us sit and talk until after midnight. Six people who would never have sat talking back at home. Some go to bed but Ellie, Alex and I laugh together until 2am, at which point it is most certainly time to give ourselves some rest in preperation for a long walk the next day.
Even meeting Sir Ian McKellen two years ago did not feel more like being in Lord Of The Rings than walking the National Pass the next day. A short train ride to Wentworth Falls brings us to the start of the walk. The entire day is like a scene from some beautifully shot adventure movie and several times I am called upon to loudly sing the Indiana Jones theme tune. Gill, Elinor, Alex, Ryan and I all attend the walk which starts, as so many do in the Blue Mountains, with a steep descent down stairs. Being Australia, these aren't just any stairs. They edge down the side of a waterfall- sparkling, animated water, wet stepping stones, creeping vines, the whole package. The bottom seems to have been created simply as a photo opportunity, it's hard to keep a grin off my face.
The walk climbs halfway back up the cliff face and we begin walking a path worn into the rock, half way up, warm sun filling the valley for a picture postcard view. The rock towers above, at one point hollowed out into an immense bowl, lik standing at the bottom of some godly kiln. The path stumbles on and the Swede and I chat of beer and the advantages of living in a society that accepts midday drinking. Suddenly, out of nowhere, comes our first view of Wentworth Falls. English, full to the bursting with words though it is, simply does not have enough adjectives to describe this sort of vista. It is awesome in the old fashioned sense and as we clamber over to the mid-section of the falls, I feel a strange sense of achievment.
We sit for some time, Alex and I chomping on pizza rolls, everyone enjoying packed lunch, before the Wentworth Falls photo shoot begins. This is a half-hour long exercise in which we all strike various ridiculous poses standing by the falls, and spend a long time trying to get photos of the water itself that do the pictures from our eyes justice- an impossibility of course, but always worth a short (no pun intended). And then it is time, once again, for a load of bloody steps. What else? This is the Blue Mountains afters all; the trailblazers here had clearly never seen June Whitfield in the highly convincing Stannah Stair Lift adverts or they would have installed one right away. These particular stairs -if you care, which I certainly don't half way up them- are cut into the cliff face in a dramatic fashion, and I smile weakly at first the still breathtaking view and second the hordes of significantly fitter hikers bounding happily past me. Bastards.
Gill, angel of the North (London) coaxes me up and then we are at the top, gorgeous of course, and site of much more photo taking. I look at the people passing us downwards with pity in m eyes. Poor fools. They have no idea that there are twice as many steps at the other end to come up.
A 2.4km walk through the broken sunlight of the Darwin bush trail (supposedly once walked by the great man himself) returns us to the railway station. Later, after checking out and bidding farewell to Gill and Oxford; Eli, Alex, Ryan and I catch our train back to Sydney. We become that group of people that everyone hopes they don't have to sit next to on trains as we talk continuously and loudly, laugh without restraint, and argue playfully over topics ranging from yawning to what hell looks like. We hug godbye at Central Station and arrange to meet, and a suggestion from Alex and I, for dinner the following night. Standing alone waiting for my bus back to Cogee, warm Sydney breeze blowing and music in my ears, I feel a ridiculously strong hit of happiness. Even the most beautiful places, it seems, can be made more so by good company.
posted by Aisling at 1:40 AM
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