Travelling Pathetically - Half Arsed Preparation Edition

 Tumble out of bed and stumble to the kitchen, pour myself a cup of ambition and yawn and stretch and try to come to life.  Seized by the spirit of Dolly Parton I gazed at my bush walking accomplishments to date and found them lacking.  In a fit of what I can only describe as a fit of delusional insanity I agreed to do a 22km walk/race in the Blue Mountains with a couple of friends of mine.  Shortly after agreements had been made and event fees paid reality kicked in and I reflected on the possibility of my completing such an event without dying.

"Time to get fit," I announced to a group of plush toys lounging on couches.

"Do you mean us or you?" asked the platypus.

"Me."

"OK, carry on."

Thus encouraged by those who fit at least half the definition of "nearest and dearest" I started making plans.  As I left the room the puffin removed its head from a plastic bag impregnated with air freshener long enough to mutter,

"This time he is definitely going to die."

The Blue Mountains walk involved a certain amount of climbing and descending so I sought out an appropriate bushwalk on the new trail app my Tasmanian correspondent put me on to (check out the professionalism).  I selected a modest 14km stroll between Cowan and Brooklyn in Sydney's so far north its almost Newcastle which went through the Kuringgai Chase National Park thus promising a scenic locale for my desperate exertions.  The trail app noted that it was marked as "hard" although having nothing to compare that to I was taking the difficulty on trust.

Normally I just head half baked into the bush but given my new level of seriousness I packed plenty of water, a charger for my phone, things to eat and (very important) advil.  Then, just to emphasise the seriousness I called my father and informed him of my intentions so that he could call a rescue team should my decaying body fail me.  My father had few questions and most of them were centred around how I managed to keep on getting their phone number but eventually I extracted a reluctant promise that if he hadn't heard from me for a week or so he would definitely consider calling the authorities.  I was all set.

Then it rained so I put my heroics off for a weekend.  The next weekend it rained again.  The third weekend wasn't promising too much better but my Tasmanian correspondent had been assured by a random group of Norwegians that the day of my walk would be precipitation free.  Placing my trust in some Nordic weather diviners on the other side of the planet I struck out towards Cowan despite the grey clouds and a moisture content in the air that made actual rain pretty much superfluous.

The ground was wet underfoot when I alighted at Cowan's modest railway station but to turn back now would be to insult the entire nation of Norway so I crossed the tracks made my way through the mud and gravel beside the railway line until I encountered a modest sign announcing that if I didn't turn back now I would be commencing a bushwalk.

The somewhat less than auspicious start of my walk.  Cowan railway station is just behind me on the left

Screwing up my courage I stepped forward and began my walk.  A tree lined trail struck off at ninety degrees to the railway line and since my trail app said proceed I obeyed.  The ground was muddy and the trees which crowded the trail were heavy with water.  Embracing the rather soggy wilderness I proceeded, images of rugged trail walking filling my head.  The rugged trail walking lasted about two minutes before it gave way to crossing a bridge over a particularly large motorway.  There were an astonishing number of vehicles on it.  I pointblank refuse to believe that that many people want to go to Newcastle.

The sign says "abandon all hope ye who enter here"

 

Once past the motorway the bush reasserted itself and now properly inserted into the wilderness I squelched forward with renewed purpose.  Water laden branches reached out for me and frogs croaked from hidden places nearby.  At least I assumed they were frogs, I didn't actually see one although I did spend a considerable amount of time looking.  Eventually I had to abandon staring at tiny patches of leaf mould from which loud croaking was emanating as I realised that time was getting away from me and I was covering virtually no ground at all.

This is a damp walking track not a shallow stream

If I had done even a shred of initial research I would have realised that the presence of Jerusalem Creek was one of the selling points of this particular bushwalk.  As it was it featured in my consciousness as a wavy blue line on the map that I needed to cross.  To be fair my first introduction to it was a rather modest, low key affair.  If there had been concrete in the vicinity the first definition that would leap to anyone's mind is "gutter".  No concrete being present we have to settle for creek.

Jerusalem Gutter, I mean Creek

To be fair it was pretty picturesque as gutters go.  As gutters go it was going down.  I was descending as well but the gutter and I took different paths to the bottom.  When next we met I would have to swallow these condescending words.

Going down; the creek has made its own arrangements

Pausing only for protracted periods of frog hunting (which involved staring fixedly at whatever piece of bush the sound appeared to be coming from and hoping a frog would present itself) I made my way slowly downwards.  My ultimate destination was on the banks of the Hawkesbury River so obviously the general trend of my walk would be down but there were a couple of modest ridges (low hills if you're not actually walking across them) between myself and Brooklyn so I was uneasily aware that descending at this stage in my journey implied a fair amount of climbing at a later point.  As I was descending I managed to snap the Clare McIntyre memorial fungus.  Given the number of creeks in the area and the generally moisture laden atmosphere I expected to be overrun with eager candidates for the Memorial Fungus award but this is the only one I saw.  As the attached photo proves the most important part of a victory is turning up.

The Clare McIntyre memorial fungus

Down, ever down I plunged (total descent a couple of hundred metres tops) passing forest, picturesque mossy logs and the usual "beauties of nature" stuff one encounters when one steps away from buildings and paved roads for a while.

They're logs and they're mossy

And no walk would be complete without a rocky outcrop photo

Then the path flattened out and became more horizontal.  I didn't realise it at the time but I had arrived at Jerusalem Creek, again.  In blithe ignorance I reveled in the sudden flatness of the ground and walked along taking photos of random trees simply because I could.

A random tree

Then I glanced to the right and realised why the path was suddenly flat.  If I had descended much further I would have drowned.  Jerusalem Creek was back and apparently had spent all of its absence working out.  A vast expanse of water greeted my somewhat astonished eyes.  What had actually happened was the creek had dialled in reinforcements and rebadged itself as Cowan Creek leading into Jerusalem Bay which was what I was actually looking at.

A little more impressive than our first meeting

My path skirted this unexpectedly impressive body of water but I did make my way to the waters edge so that I could get a better view of the oyster shells which covered pretty much every exposed surface.  I have it on good authority that they cover the non-exposed surfaces as well so wading barefoot is not a good idea.

Jerusalem Bay, now with added oyster shells

The bay was attractive enough but it had one serious downside, people.  There were people on a boat being noisy and disruptive and generally enjoying themselves.  Other quieter people were wading through the bay doing god knows what.  I decided that the population density was reaching saturation levels and decided to remove myself from it.  I had a creek to cross and then, according to my contour laden map a rather steep hill to climb.

Crossing the creek, a very modest affair dwarfed by the liquid magnificence of Jerusalem Bay, turned out to be slightly harder than I expected because the rocks were very slick and for a couple of moments I did wonder if I was actually going to have to rely on my father to remember my existence and send out a rescue team.  Fortunately hiking boots with decent ankle support (check out my preparations) prevented a couple of potentially nasty injuries and I slithered onto somewhat more solid ground.  Going forward the ground solidity was not going to my most pressing concern.

A last picturesque rock photo before the climb.

So far the walk had been enjoyable but not particularly taxing.  That was all going to change.  Jerusalem Bay is at roughly the same level as my destination but there was a lot of high ground between the two which I would now have to cover if I didn't want to stay in Jerusalem Bay for the rest of my life or slink back to Cowan in shame.

Neither of these two options being desirable I pressed on or rather, up.  There was one good thing, the earlier dampness had burnt away and any threat of rain had faded into the distance.  I breathed a silent prayer of thanks to some anonymous Norwegians and struggled upwards.  And a struggle it was, I am in no way fit.  I can walk fair distances due to a combination of habit and muscle memory but this ascent was a strain.  My lungs burnt and my legs trembled, it was a measure of the difficulty that I didn't stop for a cigarette until I was at the top.

Gasping and lathered in what I hope was sweat I dragged my aching body up a series of semi virtiginous steps.  On the way I encountered others going up or down.  I stepped aside from the path to politely let them pass.  At least that was the excuse I gave myself, in actual fact it was a rather transparent attempt to get my heart rate down to a level where I could actually measure it.  Two of the people I passed were a couple of girls who seemed to be engaged in putting their clothes back on, I'm not sure what they had been doing but I suspect I would have liked to join them.

Now I'm roughly back at the elevation I started from

With triumph singing in my ears (or possibly an incipient heart attack) I allowed a feeling of pride and achievement to flow through my body.  A feeling which was abruptly banished when I checked the map and realised I had only gone halfway.  With rubbery legs and a sinking heart I pushed on.  Fortunately now that the ground had leveled out I found that I could push along a little more easily.

"level" is of course a relative term

No sooner than I had recovered from the climb and decided that I could certainly handle the new flat walking path said path treacherously began to dip again.  I knew this would happen because I had a map with contours and everything but I had driven it from my mind after that first ascent.  Fortunately this one was distinctly more modest.  I ambled gently down to another creek (can't they put the creeks at the top of hills?) which posed for photos and then had a, by comparison, gentle climb back up to something approximating the previous altitude.

Hey ho, another creek

I think I tried something a little artistic with this shot.  It didn't really come off

Gentle this latter climb may have been but my much put upon knees were now submitting formal objections to the abuse they had suffered and I was very grateful to return to level ground once again. To give myself an excuse for a pause I took a photo of what looked like a sea anemone but probably wasn't given its position at the top of a hill.

Not a sea anemone

Of course being at the top of a hill had advantages beyond the obvious of there being no more steps to climb.  The gathering of trees politely stepped aside briefly and allowed me to take the following photo which if nothing else proves that I was at the top of something.

Definitely at the top of something

Photo opportunities very temporarily exhausted I headed on.  It was early afternoon and I still had a disturbing number of kilometres to cover.  Fortunately the trail became easier although somewhat less interesting as it had connected up with a firetrail.  Walking along the firetrail was relatively easy but it did cut back on the tree cover just as the sun to make up for its earlier tardiness threw itself into its job with renewed vigour.  I wish I could say the same.  Instead I lurched forward with rapidly diminishing vigour and increasingly desperate looks at the map to see how far I still had to travel.  Quite a way as it happened.

With the sun beating down I stumbled along the firetrail muttering curses at the arrogant, over optimistic fool who had got me into this situation.  It's a good thing I'm not capable of time travel, I suspect I would spend a good deal of my time going back and beating myself up for various acts of stupidity.  Then I wandered over to the other side of the firetrail from the previous view.

My destination is somewhere near the bridge

The pleasure I took in the magnificent view I was accorded was tempered somewhat by the fact that it was a visual representation of exactly how much further I had to walk.  I winced and carried on encouraged by the fact that I was once again heading gently downward and as far as I was aware there were no more grueling hills between myself and my destination (wrong).

One thing that had been missing from this walk so far was wildlife.  Normally my bushwalks are good for some decent bird and lizard photos at least but so far there had been nothing except oysters and its fair to say that the ones I was able to photograph were probably dead.  Finally a bird landed in a branch at an inconvenient distance from me but I photographed the crap out of it.  The results were less than stellar but I assure you there is a bird in the following picture, somewhere.

There's a bird in there

My descent had a destination of course.  I was heading towards Brooklyn Dam camping site.  I took what comfort I could from the fact that the landmarks were now bearing the name of my final destination.  Surely this must mean that I was getting close.  Indeed I was but there was one final surprise waiting for me.  But first, Brooklyn Dam.

As promised

And now with added lilypads

The trail circumnavigated pretty much the entire dam/lake thing which I thought was a little excessive and then of course started to climb.  I wasn't particularly concerned, I was very near the end now and I knew this climb wasn't particularly difficult.  Unfortunately nobody had told my knees.  Having been roundly abused earlier in the day they decided that there was a level of shit up with which they would not put.  Whimpering I dragged myself slowly upward pausing supposedly to admire the scenery but actually so that I could recuperate a little before hobbling slowly onward.  Finally I reached the top and now I knew I was really near the end.  I assured my knees that the worst was over and in my defence I really believed it.  I had forgotten that Brooklyn being on the water meant that there was another descent to do.  That descent was a nightmare.  It was a vehicle accessible road sealed in what appeared to be concrete ripple and extremely steep.  For someone whose knees were already in active revolt it was excruciating.  I literally descended by taking a dozen steps, waiting for my knees to stop screaming, taking another dozen steps and so on.  Said descent took an uncomfortably long time.  At one point I considered lying down and rolling down the hill, the presence of hairpin bends stopped me.

Finally as can be evidenced by this blog entry I got to the bottom without losing life or limb (although it was touch and go on the limb) and hobbled through the streets of Brooklyn in search of the railway station that was my final destination.  Strangely as soon as we hit level ground my knees stopped complaining and I was able to reach the station without weeping in pain.  On arriving at the station I was confronted with a set of stairs to take me up over the line and down to the station.  There was also a lift.  For reasons I can't begin to explain I decided that the lift would be cheating.  I hobbled painfully up the stairs and even more painfully down to the platform and raided my pack for advil which almost immediately made my knees feel better.  That's something else, I had the advil all along but deliberately refrained from taking it until I had finished the walk.  The only explanation I can give is that I am an idiot.  

Now with the walk behind me and in better time than I expected a feeling of triumph flooded through me washing away all of the aches (although that was probably the advil).  I called my father to let him know I had finished.

"Finished what?" he asked.

To celebrate the end of my walk I took a photo of the Hawkesbury River from the station and waited for the train home.  Fortunately the advil was still working when I had to climb the stairs to my flat.

Journey's end