19 days in the wild

…what brought us here was simple curiosity. A desire to see corners and places, to open ourselves to chance encounters with rare wildlife, to immerse ourselves in this wild patch of country and see what wonders it might hold…

In the current issue of Wild magazine (Issue 194) is the story of our adventure across Oxley Wild Rivers National Park in NSW - 19 days, 150 kilometres, 52 river crossings, 7 topo maps, 2 hidden food caches and one amazing national park - a truly memorable journey filled with moments of wonder, hard work and wild rivers.

The story in Wild gives a full account of the trip and we would love for you to go out and find a copy to read and enjoy. Supporting the magazine is supporting adventure (and writers and photographers). The picture below is a taste of the many images that feature in the story.

Tia Falls, the starting point for our adventure

But, all magazine stories have a word limit and choosing which anecdotes to include, and which to leave out, is always challenging. So, now (here) is the chance to share a few extracts that didn’t make the cut. Stories that capture more of the intimate detail of 19 days in the wild. Starting with, of course, the start of the journey.

Our first day is a classic New England winter’s day. Blue sky behind a high, swirling mist; frost lingering in shady hollows as we set off from Tia Falls, south of Walcha, shouldering our big backpacks and walking around the southern rim of Tia Gorge.

We’ve had to make contact with local property owners here to access the heart of the National Park from this western boundary. Soon we are cutting across their paddocks, navigating the indistinct rolling hills hoping to pinpoint a narrow descent ridge that will lead us into the vast Apsley River valley and the wilderness below.

Despite the farmers directions, we cross one gate too early and are forced to climb, then jump off, the 8 foot high dingo fence with our full backpacks. I climb, then jump, and then collapse on landing and kind of commando-roll into the surrounding scrub before springing to my feet in one swift, elegant movement. Craig applauds. Off we go again. Then we over shoot our mark for the night, tracing too far south. We are forced to back track a kilometre. Not a flawless start but certainly not enough to dampen the excitement as we make camp, perched high on the verge of the wilderness with views across to Garibaldi Rock - a spectacular remnant basalt outcrop that towers over the Apsley and Yarrowich River valleys.

The rock gets its name from an Aboriginal warrior whose guerrilla warfare tactics against early settlers of the region earned him the nickname ‘Garibaldi’, after the Italian general, patriot and republican who fought for the unification of modern Italy. The Aboriginal Garibaldi was a strong, smart and charismatic Thungutti man who fought against the brutal, frontier massacres of the 1800s. The Macleay Gorges and New England Tablelands were home to some of the worst recorded massacres of Aboriginal people during Australia’s frontier wars and Garibaldi is said to lie in a mass grave on the floor of the deep gorge under Garibaldi Rock.

In the morning, with that history in full view outside our tent door, it seems fitting to properly introduce ourselves to the country we are about to walk through. This is stolen land and it is Dainggatti, Nganyaywana, and Biripi Land. We are trespassers. Hopefully, respectful ones.

At breakfast I sit quietly and contemplate the land’s dispossession, its theft and its hugely altered being. Then, in an unusual act of anthropomorphic sentiment (or perhaps it is about connection to place) I decide to name the walking sticks we have chosen for the journey ahead.

The sticks were collected the day before. Mine is a thick, sturdy piece of hardwood that I picked up near the dingo fence. I name it Old Wombi, for the property it came from. Craig’s stick we name Garibaldi. It is lean, lightweight and deceptively strong. These sticks stay with us for the entire 19 days.

As we finally begin to descend into the Apsley River Valley, the sticks are a great help. The ridge walk is long and steep. But, with glorious views up and down the magnificent and deep Apsley River gorge and valley. As we leave the last farm fence behind, I feel like the adventure has truly begun.

Many of the lasting memories from this adventure remain subtly felt – the mysterious beauty of hidden landscapes in remote pockets of unseen country and the personal challenge of seeing such an abstract journey through to its end. The beauty and peace of walking in wilderness, of living day to day, of seeing no-one else and being no-one else.

Beauty and peace. Floundering in it. Waking to one. Falling asleep with the other.

It is about 4pm as I dive into the tent to set up my bed and put warm evening clothes on. The afternoons are already cool and shady in this deep valley. As I phaff around in the tent, Craig calls from outside; something about a goat coming down the hill. Who’s interested in a goat I think, so I contemplate lying back for a quick rest.

Then his voice is more urgent and he calls me to get out of the tent quickly. The ‘goat’ turns out to be the most extraordinary looking horse I have ever seen - a huge, strapping brumby stallion. It starts trotting down the slope towards us. Then it breaks into a canter and finally it hits the river flat at full gallop, snorting wildly, its head held high and neck arched. It wheels around in a great arc and stops not 50m from us. Its face and neck are completely, pitch black. I can barely make out its eyes. Then in a distinct line at its withers the black stops and the horse is pure white, all the way down its front legs. Its front hooves are black. At its first rib, the white stops. In another distinct line, it is black again. Solid, pitch black. At its flank, the colour changes again. Another distinct line and the horse is white again. Snow white too. Its whole flank but its tail is black. Shot through with one streak of white. It is, by far, the most beautiful, wildest horse I have ever seen.

It stares at us, snorts loudly, tosses its head. Its eyes are inscrutable in that black black face. For the next 10 minutes it continues its show of galloping in circles around the flat; tail high, belly creaking. Each time it wheels back around to face us. Each time it stops, it snorts. Tosses its head. Stares at us. Slowly, the circles widen. It stops further and further away from us. Eventually, the worlds most beautiful horse, gallops away up the Yarrowitch Valley.

The entire time, Craig and I have stood there completely mesmerised. Stock still. Unable to even reach for a camera. The horses markings are the most extraordinary I have ever seen. The black and the white were pure definitions of themselves. The line between them was as precise as if each had been masked and painted. The black face I cannot forget. We are left completely speechless, staring up the valley wondering if it was in fact an apparition.

At the end of the trip we left Old Wombi and Garibaldi tucked under a shrub on the final ramp to the car park. At the end of the trip journal are tucked a bunch of random lines under the title ‘Stuck in the tent poetry’.

The forest dark with black rain. The river carousing like an afternoon drunk. Cloud settles into the valley like a thought about the past settles into lingering memory. We anoint you chief compass bearer…