Road Test - Mulligan's Hut

Coombadjha River

A short hop today, moving from one campsite to another, still in Gibraltar Ranges NP.

Our mid morning shift took as along the Gwydir to the main entrance to the park and what used to be the Ranger Station, was then an information building and now appears to be plush accommodation for the park.

This has been a regular stop for us over the years, being on the track to Yamba and so close to the head of the escarpment which drops down to the Mann River.

Despite this, the nine kilometre drive from here into Mulligan’s Hut, the main campsite and step off for most of the park’s walks, has been one we have only made once. Even then, it was for a reccie, not a stay.

It's a good drive in. Easily negotiated unsealed surface and enough room to pass for those towing a van.

The campsite has been established on the slopes above the Coombadjha River, although dense bush hides it from you. Despite this, it can heard clearly enough. The sites are individually hewn and at least half a dozen are suitable for vans, which means ours, small by comparison, had no trouble. Most sites had fireplaces and tables and a series of tracks cross the campsite and lead you down to the day use picnic area. An smallish amenities block is located near the entrance. It's tiled and has flushing loos but it's cold water showers only. A hook is provided beside the shower head, most likely for patrons with their own solar showers.

There is a lovely open picnic area for the day users, and a couple more toilets, this time of the long drop variety.

Mulligan's Hut

The last level down the slope is an open glade where the Coombadjha hurries past and where Mulligan's Hut may be found. Originally one of two built by William Mulligan, this is actually a recreation done by the National Parks in 1968. The first was destroyed by fire and the second became unsafe.

Mulligan had come to the area during the first world war in partnership with others, seeking a licence from the government to establish a hydroelectric scheme and to open a copper mine. The plan was to build a hydro electric power station at the foot of Coombadjha Falls and use the pace of the falling water to generate electricity. To prove that the waterfall would flow at a sufficient rate, Mulligan built two weirs across the Coombadjha so he could monitor the flow and prove that the scheme was feasible.

Government engineers eventually disagreed and the scheme was abandoned. Dreamer or visionary? Who can tell, but it must be said, that Mulligan's name has lived on long after those officials have been forgotten.

We took a walk towards the Needles but returned early when it was discovered I had left my asthma medication behind. As it turned out, I had messed up directions given us by a park worker to a publicly unknown waterfall. Messed up in that we were heading in the opposite direction.

Later in the afternoon we went for a stroll. The wild flowers are gorgeous and so many pretty

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birds. Just around our campsite we saw a yellow robin, male and female satin bower birds, a tree creeper and a rufous fantail. Returning from our stroll, two little wallabies were feeding right beside our campsite.

Afternoon tea of pikelets and tea, then reading for Sue and writing for me. It's chilly. Looks like a cold night ahead.

Road Test - Boundary Falls

Beardy Waters Reserve

Our evening in Armidale was uneventful and by morning, my opinion of frying pans had diminished from fear to respect, although the slightest unexpected noise had me diving for cover.

We eventually made our way further north along the New England Highway, stopping for lunch just outside Glen Innes after we had turned east on the Gwydir Highway, at the Beardy Waters picnic area. It was established a while back now and used to be a favoured stop with its variety of picnic spots, bench tables and national park fireplaces. Exposed granite boulders and natural grasses leading down to deep pools in the Beardy Waters made it a once attractive spot.

Not any more. The long drop toilets had that bouquet which belong to the bequeaths of neglect and the fireplaces - at least the ones we saw - were rusted to the point of screaming complaint if you made any attempt at lifting their plate. There were a few spots where the grass was short enough to feel safe on this sunny spring day but if you wandered from these, you struggled to still see your knees.

Regardless, we parked down by the creek and broke bread in the comfort of the van and chit chattered ourselves into the afternoon.

Before we hit the road, Sue braved the nearest toilet and decided that not even Victoria Cross winners were that brave, so a lady-like repose beyond view would suffice. She returned as I was taking a few photos of the creek.

Sharp-eyed as usual, she pointed out something swimming rapidly across the creek, suggesting it might be a snake. I was convinced it was just a surface bug and rebutted her suggestion.

“Are you sure? It moves a lot like a snake,” she insisted.

“It’s a bug,” I confidently retorted and then, “no, it’s a snake. Run for the car!”

It was coming straight for us, clearly not by intent, but I didn’t want to be in its unintentional way when it arrived. The car and van lurched up the hill and we took ten minutes to stop laughing.

The next sixty odd kilometres were at times slow, because we are never in a hurry and tend to dawdle up hills but we reached our overnight stop, Boundary Falls by half three.

Boundary Falls is located in the western end of Gibraltar Range, which straddles the escarpment of the Great Dividing Range as it passes between Glen Innes and Grafton. Boundary Creek divides two types of sclerophyl forest and was also the boundary between two large properties more than a hundred years ago. The spot where the camping area has been established was a small timber mill for thirty years, up until the mid 1960’s. The remains of the steam engine which powered the mill lies rusting among the trees and undergrowth that are gradually making it their own. Footings for the huts and buildings can be found within a short tramp.

Bondary Falls

The falls themselves are not thunderously spectacular in the way that Ebor Falls can assault your senses but they have a different charm. Firstly, most views of them are between trees - there is no clearly defined lookout platform and second, a short but steepish decent takes you down to Boundary Creek where it flows after the falls. It's a treat in itself, but thirty seconds upstream, you walk out onto the shore of the splash pool of the falls and which are no more than thirty metres away, Boundary Falls cascades down it’s clefted sheer wall. It's a peaceful, mystical place with the ripples spreading toward you across the pool; giant remnants of trees are driven into the pool like spears thrown by some pre-history beings; a little granite sand beach beckons you and off to your left, Boundary Creek goes on through a dense pocket of rainforest which hugs low and creeps along its course, keeping its secret life hushed from the eucalypts above.

Back at the campsite, I chopped wood for the fireplace and Sue prepared our jaffles. I must say, the menu proved a shock. Jaffles were the favoured evening meal when we toured Central Australia with the children more than twenty years ago but for some reason known only to Sue, after that trip, they were ripped from the menu. Ever the optimist, I have kept a jaffle iron packed with every rig since.

We opened a special bottle of red, given to me on the occasion of my sixtieth summer by Sal and Al

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Aurisch. I vowed to apply it to our first night on the road, in the new Avan, but it seemed more appropriate to be opened in our first bush setting, rather than a caravan park.

Romance would report that I hadn't lost my touch with the jaffle iron, but I had. However, I recovered quickly and they were all eaten.

The wine was superb!

Returning Home - Yamba 2013

After what had been an indifferent Yamba holiday, we used our programmed extra day wisely and took our time coming home. I say indifferent because it started with Sue on anti-biotics and ended with me on similar. We had our share of rain but, to be fair, when the sun shone it was very pleasant.

Our ill health curtailed our favourite activities, so although Sue went to the beach most days the weather would allow, she only swam once. My dislike of the water which started years ago when Sarah was caught in a rip, has reached the stage where I never swim any more. In fact, there isn't much about the beach I like. We only went for two bike rides but learnt enough on those rides to know Sue is now good to go. The "new" dragster handlebars have done the trick and she can ride with no fear of hurting her back.

There was family time, of course, which is always to be valued. Chris bought Carly and Cameron and for a shorter, yet just as intoxicating time, Sam bought Jacqui. All will be counting the days until next year.

I must admit, we missed Jack and Ava and their parents.

Our last evening was occupied with dinner at Pippy's Restaurant, only the shortest of walks from our accommodation. The chef and owner loves to have a chat and seems genuinely interested in her customers. We had a pleasant but not spectacular meal, the best part of which was the company. If this had been a date, I would have asked her out again.

Sue was as tardy as she always is on pack up morning, although it didn't matter as we had oodles of time to drive back to Tamworth. Despite he protesting and 25 minute shower, we left about half past nine. We have re-booked our beloved Namanula and will return next year for our tenth consecutive winter there and our twentieth consecutive Yamba holiday.

Despite going there most years, we decided to pass up the chance of visiting the location of the former Gibbens family farm, not far from Brushgrove on Woodford Island. Instead, we went into Grafton and down Prince Street to Memorial Park, across the road from the Crown Hotel. The park sits above the high water mark of the Clarence and has beautiful water views across the river to South Grafton and to Susan Island. When Sue was a child, she was convinced that Susan Island had been named after her and played a game  with her siblings as they crossed the main coming into town in the old Woolsley. It was a game she taught her own children. The bridge has a series of iron lattice walls which gave passengers a peek-a-boo view of Susan Island. Children of two generation used to try and say "Susie Island" as many times as they could in the brief second they could see it.

The small cairn in Memorial Park

The park is full of the memories of mostly men who died in all parts of the world, a long way from Grafton, in wars and conflicts. It better than tasteful. It's quiet and peaceful. In the corner of the park, nearest the wharf, stands a small cairn, no bigger than a small boy. I visited this cairn two years ago and became very angry, for this was the memorial to 13 boys, aged between 8 and 10, who needlessly drowned two weeks before the Christmas of 1943. I had researched the story, thinking I might write a poem about it and had spent time with the local historical society. It was as though the story was so tragic, no one wanted to know anymore. Even the internet was scant of information.

What I had found disturbed me and It was clear I would write more than a poem but my concern turned to anger when I saw the state of plaques on the cairn. Hundreds of men were remembered for their choices and their deaths a long way away, their names clear and well maintained on walls, gates, archways and memorials behind me but the names of the 13 dead boys who drowned less than 300m away, were almost impossible to read. I cried later at the graves of nine of them in the South Grafton cemetery.

When I returned home, I wrote the most powerful article of the journalistic part of my career and Grafton's Daily Examiner printed it. Should you wish, you can read the article here. I set out to write a poem but wrote a newspaper piece instead.

Two weeks ago, reflecting on the impact researching and writing the story had, I found the poem I wanted to write all along. It was the poem which had the most impact at my reading earlier in the trip at the Bookachinno, the Yamba bookshop. You can read the poem here.

Two years later, I was going to pay my respects but my sombre mood turned to joy as I approached the cairn. All of the plaques, decayed and hard to read, had been replaced! Apart from a fairly blatant attempt to continue to remove blame from where it so obviously lay in 1943, the wording was empathetic and respectful and on one side, their names were printed in full. A little too formal perhaps. This was how men would write their name, not little boys. I was so thrilled.

We went for coffee at a cafe beside the river at the far end of the park and in the course of conversation with the proprietor, found out that the little cairn was refurbished by council following an outcry from the public. "Some fellow wrote an article which stirred it all into action."

I haven't felt so useful since my teaching days.

After coffee we visited a very pleasant Grafton Art Gallery, which uses space nicely and has a number of impressive pieces, mostly contemporary. Reg Mombassa of Mambo fame is here and some of John Witzig's fabulous surf culture photography. The front of the gallery was originally a doctor's surgery, with some of the older ladies who volunteer sitting in what was his consulting room as they now welcome guests. The Council has built onto the back of the gallery in a way which is totally sympathetic to the original architecture.

After lunch we had to forgo our planned route home via Nymboida and Ebor and instead headed back up the Gwydir Highway, past the Mann River and climbed up the range. We detoured at the former park office of Gibraltar Range NP and drove into Mulligan's Hut, a place we have driven past so many times without ever visiting. Back towards the top of the range, we have descended on the western side to Washpool NP several times and likewise have stopped overnight, further west, at Border Falls, so Sue was keen to see what the facilities were like. We remain hopeful that we might become independent travels again, all be it with different accommodation behind us, so inspections are still necessary.

The picnic area was pleasant, with some very old Xanthoria and the traditional high altitude eucalypts. There was a lack of traffic over the surface of the area, as evidenced by the small moss which was spreading in parts. Sue walked the short distance down to the hut of "Mulligan" fame, gathered some mental images and enough history to entice us back sometime.

We finished our westward run at Glen Innes, regrettably under the golden arches as the cafe at The Standing Stones was closed. Its hard to believe that people use these places because everything is the same.

South now as the sun left us and only a toilet stop at Guyra came between us an a dinner date at the Top Pub at Uralla. There we met Frosty and Cindy, as good a match as you would find. We inevitably talked cricket but quite a few other topics in the mix. Frosty is one of my Waratahs cricket family. We're everywhere but we stay close. It was god to catch up.

Back home to my walls of
photos ... and the cricket

The last hour passed quickly enough and without incident, each kilometre as familiar as the layout of your house in the dark. The house was where we left it and our unpacking done on automatic. We each went about the jobs to be done with little talk and little need to. Is this what being comfortable in your marriage is? I'm not sure I know but felt warm and pleasant and it was good to be home.

The hard part was waking up this morning and not seeing the ocean. I squinted at the park and made muffled vague roaring noises. It was good enough.