Over a big four days, the highs and lows of this walk – both geographic and personal – are fabulously framed by icy water by day and open fires at night.
The closure of the Green Gully track due to flooding meant our plan to complete New South Wales’s only four-day hike sleeping in historic cattlemen’s shelters was in doubt right up to our departure date. This wasn’t the only time over the following days that we experienced deep unease for what was about to transpire. The first day’s trail used a National Parks vehicle management track for its 17.5-kilometre length. It felt comforting to have packs on our backs accumulating miles in our legs again. At day’s end, Birds Nest Hut was greeted with somewhat of a sense of relief rather than disappointment, after our potential weather cancellation.
In contrast with the first, our next day felt more like an authentic remote hiking experience, being mostly on unformed tracks. We knew we were in for a huge descent later, so with trepidation we hiked up and up to our morning stop at Birds Nest Trig marker. We climbed gently from there through to Rocks Lookout – an understated name for such a spectacular setting. An unspoilt panorama of the distant ridge lines highlighted the depth of the gorge we were about to explore. Yesterday’s 650-metre drop had seemed arduous but the near 1000-metre descent over just the next few kilometres would really test our muscle fitness, stability and, ultimately, our toenails.
After a few spectacular tumbles we approached the end of the impossibly steep gradient. Here we were confronted with our first creek crossing, just 200 metres shy of the rustic Green Gully Hut. The stream was challenging more for its strength than its depth. This water was in a hurry to be somewhere and, with a fire in a warm hut beckoning, so were we. We were all in a thoughtful mood that night after reading the comments in the hut journal. The previous hiking group had lamented giving up any thoughts of hiking the gorge on their third day due to the flood-swollen creek. The disappointment dripped off the page.
We awoke to the sound causing us dread for the past three mornings. The type of sound that instils an acute sense of foreboding; a raging stream not 50 metres away from our 1950s-era hut. The morning would bring a decision point. We had three unwelcome options to choose from. Would we risk life and limb by taking on the proposed 37 creek crossings along Green Gully Gorge’s icy, fast-flowing stream swollen by months of seemingly non-stop rain? Would we, in fact could we, retrace our steps back up the precipitous slope the best part of a kilometre above to only then descend the even greater gradient and distance to the same gorge some 14 kilometres downstream? At least this would give us another hut ‘experience’ before heading back up the same 1000-metre climb to get to our final destination 17 kilometres away. Or, would we, to our ultimate embarrassment, acknowledge our abject failings and hike back to the nearest phone reception area marked on our maps to call the authorities for a mayday helicopter rescue? We had read the many warnings about the gorge traverse leg that said that if the water is fast-flowing, over waist-deep and/ or murky brown in colour then you must not proceed. As in, no way. You must instead retrace your steps up the range and take the alternate route to the next hut. Oh, and this would be the most difficult of all the days on the Green Gully hike. That might not be so bad if we hadn’t felt like we were already at our physical limits after the first two days.
Relief washed over us when we first saw the creek that morning. No more than mid-thigh deep on my six-foot frame and much clearer than on the previous days, our only concern was the rapid clip of the stream’s flow. With little thought of temperature, we waded in, determined to just give it a good go. An instant rush of cold-induced pain greeted us, followed gradually by the onset of numbness. We progressed until we reached the tenth crossing where the creek entered a broad water hole. Here the stream flowed gently but, worryingly, was over waist deep. My partner lost her footing and fell in, pack and all. Her screams and curses were heard back in Tamworth 100 kilometres away. I restrained myself from laughing – earlier the rapid water flow had knocked me off balance on the uneven bottom and sent me into an undignified flail of arms, legs, and sopping clothes. And no one uttered a snigger. With an air temperature in the low teens and water temperature not even close to that, it was the last thing we wanted. It must have been a funny sight, but we were aware of how serious the threat of hyperthermia was in such a remote location. Surprisingly, after the biting explosion of pain subsided, feeling gradually returned thanks to the heat-generating exertions between the crossings. The many distractions along the way, such as spectacular cliffs lining the gorge, the stunning stream scenes and the sightings of the rare rock wallabies, all offset the fixation on our wet clothing. Finally, after 39 carefully-forded crossings over 14 snaking kilometres, we arrived at Colwell’s Hut. What an incredible sense of relief. Leaning into the flickering fire that night, we relived the travails of the day, recounting the many misadventures. This time there was no holding back the laughter.
Our torturous climb out from the hut the next morning made us even more thankful that day three had lived up to its reputation for being the highlight. The sight of Cedar Creek Lodge triggered emotions ranging from elation at the thought of impending hot showers and cold beer, to a release of exhaustion and some sadness that this much anticipated hike was finally accomplished.
