For all the scurvy, seasickness and usurping imperialism it would have been quite something to voyage with Captain Cook in 1770. Cruise the ocean, meet the locals, spot exotic wildlife, hide Joseph Bank’s acacia collection in the poop deck. You’d get to discover new lands and – best of all –name them. Cook would have had first dibs mind, and being from Yorkshire he would be undeniably dry and unimaginative about it: Wide Bay (a large open bay), Sandy Cape (sand), Red Point (red), Booby Island (wishful thinking arising from a year at sea).
Cook was having a delirious day on April 21, 1770 when cruising up the south coast of what – inexplicably – was to become called New South Wales. Somewhere beyond Point Upright (yeah he named that too) Cook “saw a remarkable peaked hill which resembles a square dovehouse with a dome on top”. He thus decided to name it Pigeon House and from that point on it has acted as a beacon for sailors, sightseers and bush bashers the world over.
Pigeon House now sits within the gargantuan Budawang wilderness covered by Morton National Park and a number of adjoining reserves, a largely unexplored, impenetrable land of sandstone cliffs and gorges, coated with eucalypts, shrubs and ferns. It is almost as it was when Cook whizzed past on the way to Botany Bay. A few roads fringe its edges and offer access to scenic vistas, waterfalls and a tangle of greenery. But it can take some work to enter, even with the newly upgraded Nerriga Road taking some of the roughness temporarily out of the equation.
One of the bonuses of a visit to Pigeon House is its proximity to the coast, meaning that with a bit of planning you can enjoy all that has to offer as well. Like fish tacos in Milton and leisurely golf in Mollymook and shopping in Ulladulla, before enduring a relaxing couple of hours in and around the water in Bendalong. Warm sunshine fading, ocean glimmering, cold beer flowing, is this ideal preparation for an assault on a mountain?
I have had far worse Monday mornings than a dawn start in Bendalong. With the seasons supposedly changing sunrise is drifting beyond seven these days, making it an ideal period to revel in that new dawn, new day vibe. It is the hour of dog walkers and anglers and people with cameras but today just sparsely scattered; most appeared to still be in bed in the Tourist Park, even by the time we had packed up to head for the hills. Leaf blowing, I guess, can wait.
And so, to Pigeon House Mountain, the reason we are here after all. Via a fortuitous stop at the Milton Heritage Bakery (which is definitely one that can be logged in the revisit bank). Fuel for a challenging but captivating climb. Part of the challenge being getting to the trailhead itself, via the back roads and rutted logging tracks which undulate through cool, shady, beautiful forest. The Subaru seems to love this stuff though and I quite love taking it on such journeys too.
So the car was up to the job, but were the humans – me, Alex and Michael? The trail – well-built and marked – veers quite steadily upwards and scrambles up a number of rocks for the first kilometre. A small shelf offers the first of the views, snatched through clutches of trees and over boulders. It’s an opportune stop for breath, water and to try to dry the sweat from running down your face and into your eyes and mouth. But it’s a futile effort, with the first view of the mountaintop itself offering both allure and a sense of foreboding.
True, there is some relief for a while following a sheltered ridgeline, before the steps return again and the sweat comes back in profusion. It is quite remarkable that someone has gone to the effort to build all these steps though, and the piece de resistance comes with the final climb on a series of metal steps and ladders, hopefully fixed securely to the rocky dovehouse. At the top of each series of steps, views begin to open up and you can see, sense, taste, that the salty sweat will definitely be worth it.
And, you know what, that old effort-reward ratio is positive in spite of the effort part of the equation. While the sea can be seen sparkling and blue, it is the wilderness of the Budawangs to the west, north and south that shines. It is immense, primeval, distinctly and majestically Australian. The Monolith Valley beckons, surrounded by tabletop plateaus carved by the meander of the Clyde River. Ranges expand north and south, and somewhere over one of those distant lumps the road back to Canberra rises.
Pigeons were lacking but instead the summit appeared to be a bastion for numerous giant butterflies, the ubiquitous Australian fly, and a curious lizard or two. No doubt accustomed to weary walkers feasting in celebration on apples and oranges and squished cakes from Milton Heritage Bakery, waiting for the crumbs to fall. I’ll say it again, but I have had far worse Monday mornings, even when cake has likewise been involved.
And so, in a matter-of-fact Yorkshire way, what goes up must come down and back to sea level we headed by foot and by car. A sea level with fish and chips, cooling drinks and cooler ice cream, seemingly modelled on the giant summit lumps of Pigeon House. Anything worked off replenished in minutes. Extra burden for the car, which now struggled a little in the heat over the hills (I know how you feel poor car).
Oh to be sailing instead, onwards to some bay surrounded by botany and up north to a rather large reef acting as a kind of barrier. To see new things and name them after the bleeding obvious (or upper crust toffs from England). To strike out into the world like a pigeon into the skies, embracing the wonders around you, finally coming home with tales to tell and sights that will ingrain in your memory until the end of days. To embark on voyages of discovery every day, long since Captain Cook’s has passed.
natural landscape is in much less turmoil (unless you listen to those wacky “scientists” with their corroborated, peer-reviewed “research” and years of undisputed empirical “data”). There are, clearly, mountains to climb and some are easier than others.
the right and deep ravines carved by Lady Northcote’s Creek, the mountains seeming to tumble sharply west. I have no idea who Lady Northcote was but if her character was anything like that of the landscape in which she was named, she was probably a bit of a looker, though occasionally bleak and somewhat cutting.
Before too long Albina Lake emerges, tucked in a sheltered valley seemingly conducive to an array of wildflowers and other alpine plants. The lake looks quite inviting in the warmth and would prove a nice spot for a picnic. It’s about nine kilometres into the walk now, and with the summit of Mount Kosciusko just a few thousand metres distant, we resolve to head on and join the masses carrying their lunch to the top of Australia. On reflection, the best part of the walk is over…though this may be in part because familiar paths will soon be rejoined.
Unfortunately we seem to have gradually descended a little, and the hoick up to the main summit thoroughfare is probably the steepest of the day. We’re not talking rock climbing here, but frequent steps and, by now, quite a penetrating sun. The junction with the main summit trail is like emerging from a country lane onto the M1. Mostly originating from Thredbo, families, fitness freaks and old fogies join us in a steady stream coiling up to the top (2,228m). A medley of Aussie flags and fluoro leggings congregates around the summit marker, and lunching is de rigueur. With homemade hummus and more quiche ours is perhaps one of the more pretentious of picnics!
summit climb and apparently includes Australia’s highest public toilet – a sedate, well-graded trail makes it all the way back. This is the old summit road and I read that a shuttle bus used to ply along here, part of me wishing it was still running. The open scenery is not unpleasant, but in comparison to other parts of the track and given the gathering weariness this part is a bit of a drag. Markers every kilometre break it up, as does Seaman’s Hut (2,020m) and a more comfortable bridging of the Snowy River with four kilometres remaining.
upwards trail to Blue Lake looks like an impressive climb! Snow Gums also cluster here, stunted and bending with their striped, smooth bark of chocolate and sand, of black and white. Afternoon clouds are building and the risk of storms hypothesised look as though they will be realised. But, after six and a half hours and 21.9 kilometres, we reach the (relative) safety of a Subaru Outback. Accomplished and relieved, invigorated and weary; trundling another 220km back to Canberra (577m), via Jindabyne caffeine and Cooma steak. From the real Australia and back to the bizarre.
There comes a point in January when people pause to consider what it means to be Australian. This usually occurs on or around the anniversary of a few hundred boatpeople from Great Britain arriving to “nothing but bush” (to quote the minister for Indigenous Australians and His Lordship Prime Minister of the Monarchical Colony of Australian Subjects). Considered writings of pride, of angst, of hope, of uncertainty litter the newspapers and infiltrate the electronic graffiti of the twittersphere. For the common man – let’s call him Shane – the Australian essence is commemorated through the bite of a lamb chop from a gas barbecue the size of a truck, a youthful discussion of rising intonation about the best 100 songs involving people with beards lamenting at life, or a day in front of the TV watching tennicrickcycletfooty with a so-cold-it-hurts beer.
While I could brave a venture into the question ‘What does it mean to be Australian?’ I neither have the will nor the current brainpower to go down this path. It may be I am suffering from that particularly laconic strand of Australianism that arises specifically at this time of year – the can’t really be arsed is it still the holidays period. I’m also in the dubious position of not really being a proper Australian, not really, even though the flag of my country of birth is still emblazed like some badge of imperial approval upon yours. All I can say is that I feel lucky, immensely lucky, to be a part of you, attached to your deep blue skies, your sandy shores, your withering white gum trees, and your mostly generous and progressive people.
I feel lucky, on most days, to be in Canberra. Yes really! A capital you have built in little over one hundred years from sun and frost-baked plains and bush-tangled hills. You really ought to be a little prouder of this achievement, especially because you have left some of those bush-tangled hills alone. The sweeping roundabouts and nationalist edifices now scattered across the plains are looking particularly fine as well, what with the regular stormy soakings keeping the grass nice and green. A summer of such generous rainfall that it could almost be British. How soothing.
Despite such impertinence, the sun still shines most days here, and for that I am grateful. The slight irony is that I write this looking out of my window on grey accompanied by a cool 17 degrees only. But this is surely a blip, for other days have offered ample warm sunshine before the storms. Conditions in which I can enjoy your verdant lawns and embrace your rising humidity. To climb bushland hills and swing golf clubs very amateurishly. To cycle alongside the water and sip coffee with the hipsters. To be that most Australian of creatures and watch sport; and not just any sport, but cricket, and cricket in an atmosphere of cleverly articulated critique of the opposing English team. Pommie-bashing I think you call it, and too bloody right.
As a more recent entrant upon this giant landmass I feel blessed that I can maintain a comfortable, civilised, and invariably cultured urban existence while still being easily belittled by nature. I can live in a clean, safe, prosperous city scattered with sweeping roundabouts and take one of the exits towards nothingness. Though for nothingness read abundance. An abundance of gum trees and hills and high plains in Namadgi, from which rocky outcrops pierce an abundant blue sky. A plethora of grasses and wildflowers emerging in swampy hollows, the weeds also thriving in a show of acceptance and egalitarianism. A setting for black cockatoos and butterflies to float in the air, riding the breeze upon which small white clouds cluster and vanish.
