Thunder resounded heavily across the forest as I arrived at Mt Nardi, roughly 10 kilometres outside of Nimbin in the World Heritage Nightcap National Park. Turning towards the hilltop, under the steady fall of light rain, I spied a broadcast radio station exhibiting a radiation warning – a stark contrast to the adjacent rainforest.
This was just another notch in a string of curious alignments I had seen this afternoon. As I’d just driven for two hours through beautiful countryside – past steep meadows, valleys and forested hills, past CDs glued across fences, large clusters of solar panels, a whopping commune, lake-like pools decked out handsomely in the bush (with not a house in sight), and towering mansions, perched on lonely, forested hills.
Perhaps then, it should have been no surprise when I read the signage on my walk to Pholis Gap and discovered it was named after one Athol Pholi – a timber worker killed on the trail by a falling tree. The area had been the scene of fierce protesting over logging in the ‘80s. The protestors won, and all that remains of the industry is a dilapidated flying fox (which I didn’t find), once used to shoot logs half a kilometre down to Kunghur Mill.
I admit, I was a tad spooked as I began my journey, as besides this grim tale, the sky began to darken, thunder continued in steadily increasing bursts, and I was alone in an old, yet very beautiful forest. The largest subtropical rainforest in the world.
Being no ornithologist, I began to hear what I thought were strange sounds, like a large, deep man impersonating an owl, followed by a vigorous rustle and three loud claps. A little further and I heard a noise like a cat being strangled – a Catbird I later found out – a splendid green, yet piercingly tuneless creature. A more graceful encounter was the long, feather-tailed Albert’s lyrebird I spied darting off the path.
Heading down into Pholis Gap, I passed New England Blackbutts – large, hollow trees that gnarled and twisted, offering shelter from the rain. It was comforting to know they were there. Then, through a break in the forest, I caught splendid, cloud strewn views of Doughboy Mountain and the Doon Doon and Tweed valleys – country of the Widjabul people and once part of an immense volcanic crater.
Continuing, I passed a snail shell the size of a tennis ball, glistening, wild raspberries, brush turkeys and a florid arrangement of fungi. I had reached the end of the path where a sign told me that beyond this point was advanced bushwalking, as the trail was shady. Thinking I had roughly two hours before nightfall, I pushed on, along a heavily forested ridge, contending with an assault of blood-thirsty leeches.
Now saturated, wandering through dense, wet forest, I almost stepped on a large python. She appeared to have just swallowed a rodent and was in a blissful state of digestion. I walked around her and her slowly descending lump. At this point I wondered if I’d ever get to a lookout, so I whipped out my phone, looked at Google Earth and found out I had Buckley’s of reaching a cliff any time soon.
I could see the distant symbol of a geocache, hiding roughly several kilometres away in a rainforest valley. Not today, I thought, and I began my return journey through thick clouded forest, as the light was now fading fast behind the hills.
thankyou very much for your very interesting journey and your explanations of the terrain available in my local area. indigenous Aunt Jane…jingala X very well done and clearly presented work. congratulations.