When people get lost they go in circles; it’s a fact. You’ve only got to go 100 metres without being sure where you are when you start to turn. I read a story of a hiker in the Appalachians who’d perished. Her husband had notified authorities when she failed to turn up, but despite searchers being less than 100 metres away at times, they did not find her body for some months. Now that I’ve been lost three times I can confirm the reality.

Gerringong FallsAll pictures by the author

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Budderoo Fire Trail

Pool of the Gods

We moved on and came across two men and a car. They lived further down the road, one of only a couple of property owners from when the whole area was gazetted for grazing and divided into blocks. The eldest of the two men originated from Iowa 40 years ago but had retained some of his accent. He, too, was a font of knowledge.

QuollsIn this area there are 82 quolls. I asked how was that figure determined. It turns out that NPWS have a trap that captures a few hairs off them and the hairs are then DNA tested – who’d have thought? He then got on to sugar gliders, quite a few around here as well but, turns out Iowa man goes back to Wisconsin every year to a dairy convention. While at one of them a lady was walking past wearing a fisherman’s many pocketed jacket and he heard a noise. “You haven’t got gliders have you?” Indeed she had, one in every pocket! Apparently, it’s a big thing in the States and there’s even a group of vets who specialise in treating them.

Iowa man then explained how he maintained the road at his own expense, even though it was Crown Land. I’d have loved to learn more but my goal was still ways off.

Iowa man told us it was downhill, then uphill to a rainforest and turn right after about 300 metres. I left Tadpole John and sped off, figuring I’d see him later. I bundled the bike over the locked gate to the Hersey Trail and headed off, anticipation rising. In just a few minutes the noise of a creek foretold how close I was getting, but there were very rough gravel patches and two large logs to get over first, put there to prevent erosion.

Pool of the godsThe two bikers had said something about going 30 metres to the left when you arrived at the feeder creek but I parked the bike and couldn’t help but notice a seldom used track going somewhere across the other side, curiosity reigned so I moved to ford the waters but, on the right was one of the most beautiful pools I’d ever seen. The green was reflected from the forest into a pool coloured red and brown from the local minerals. I fancied that ancient civilisations would have labelled it the “Pool of the Gods”.

In time I moved onto the track, such as it was, for it was overgrown and you continually had to brush vegetation aside. Up to your waist the trail was visible but, the top part was reclaiming the heath lands.

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Gerringong Creek

I pushed on, unsure just where it came out but I figured it had to lead somewhere. Small bits of red on top of stakes indicated that fox baiting was taking place here, the main reason for the healthy quoll population.

Iowa man had told us they used to have a terrier that woke them every night with barking. The first night after it died, they lost their chooks. The quolls’ persistence had paid off.

Meanwhile, I pushed on and eventually stumbled through the branches to another stream, Gerringong Creek as it transpired. Upstream was a small cascade that I deemed worthy of a pic or two so I removed my shoes and socks and in an ungainly manner waded through the waters, pausing to gaze at some strange insect at the water’s edge, but it was a yabby claw. It felt like a privilege to just be here, immersed not only in the waters but nature itself.

Working my way around the stream to get different angles I noticed a trail on the far side and pondered its destination, so I barefooted my way along it and, lo and behold, here was a side angle on the falls.

Frankly, and I’d been warned, it’s downright frightening because here, in true wilderness, there are no railings, there’s no OHS, just a massive sheer drop over the edge if you make a false move. I got low on the ground and hauled myself closer and gazed down on the Sassafras Way below and the deep gully that stretched to the far horizon. A braver man might have gotten closer still but I wanted to enjoy a few more years in the world.

DisorientatedI returned, crossed the stream and put my shoes on again and headed off. The trail seemed more indistinct on the return journey and I reached a spot where it got confusing. It seemed like there were three options. In hindsight, I took one of two wrong ones and ended up squeezing through scrub and starting to doubt if I was heading the right way. It’s the cobwebs that give you the clue. If you start brushing cobwebs aside, you know no-one has been here for a while. You’re probably getting lost. Not probably, I was, and realised it when I stumbled into a round clearing. There was no way out save bush bashing.

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Well, I stumbled around that clearing for what seemed like ages but was probably only a few minutes. I even had trouble finding how I’d even gotten in here and pushed through where it seemed possible to do so. In hindsight it seems ridiculous but reality can be a big awakening.

I could hear water splashing not that far away but could only see a metre in front while getting a face full of twigs, the scrub being that thick. After some time I stumbled out at Gerringong Creek again, just 10 metres from where I’d left originally.

I started out again and this time jagged the actual trail. An occasional footprint and red label made me confident but then, I met up with John again, who was also exploring, and somehow convinced him it wasn’t worthwhile continuing on and we headed back towards the crossing.

Back at the feeder creek we took the downstream option as I’d been advised and there was the trail. A narrow bush one but clearly utilised by many people and it followed the unnamed water flow before swinging south to follow the ridge line to the best lookout, a protruding section of sandstone cliff that lorded over the chasm beneath.

Towards one edge there was a raised section about the height of a sofa, ideally placed for relaxing and soaking up the view. We sat down and pulled out food, though John had a proper lunch while I made do with an apple. We were both agreed that taking time out in a place like this was special, not to be forgotten and to be savoured for longer than a glance or two. The whole time you’re there you keep thinking “Wow, it’s a long way to the bottom”, or more coarse words to that effect.

The fallsThe man who’d tipped me off over a year previously had raved about them and the two bikers had echoed those sentiments. They were all agreed it was the best of the Southern Highlands waterfalls, now I was here checking them out. As for height, they were correct, though exact elevations are hard to come by. Roughly they are as follows: Fitzroy – 80 metres; Belmore 100 metres; Carrington 160 metres; Gerringong 180 metres.

The other factor here is that there are no crowds. In the middle of the busiest holiday season of the year, less than a dozen people were sighted in three hours. There’s a genuine feeling of being somewhere special,

View beside Gerringong Falls

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