The Shadow of the Forest
Contents
It was fifteen years ago I first stumbled across this walk, but it wasn’t until recently that I tried walking it. Those years have seen the rainforest slowly reclaim the track. While parts are still fairly clear, other parts are extremely hard to follow, requiring careful navigation. The reward is a magical forest of stunning beauty, a world of greens and darkness, of mosses and ferns, beech and mountain ash.
Beginnings
While riding along the valley, all that could be seen of the mountains was their forest-covered lower slopes. The summits a thousand metres above were lost in the low cloud. The sunshine that had begun the day had gradually faded, leaving me under a roof of solid drizzly grey.
With the weather seeming to be turning, I considered whether I should abort my planned walk. Then in the gloom above I saw a hint of blue, and was engulfed in a blaze of sunshine. The road became a river of light with the sun reflecting off its wet surface. For a moment the world felt brighter and hopeful. Then I was back into the gloom, but I rode on.
The start of the walk was hidden in a tangle of blackberries and weeds beside a road. I found an entry point a little to the side where the blackberries subsided. Wire-grass tendrils metres long clung to me as I pushed through, resisting my entry into the forest. However, these plants tapered off quickly, replaced by ferns and treeferns, beeches and wattles, while a few towering mountain ash rose out of sight into the sky.
The track began as a vague line through the ferns. The early section had a few trees down, which not only required scrambling through the broken branches, but also made it hard to keep to the line of the track. Trying to visualize how the route would have fitted to the terrain often helped to pick it up again. A patch of thicker fern under a roof of treefern fronds likewise required some intuition. Occasionally I spotted some faded flagging tape tied around a branch or treefern, which was a welcome signal that I was on the right course. I repaid my gratitude to those who’d left it by renewing the tape, doing my part to keep the walk alive.
Flowing down the hillside from the left was a small tributary stream. Further up the hill it ran in multiple tiny threads before joining together. Down where I was the stream passed through a small culvert under the track, but even without that convenience, it was narrow enough to step across.
I soon reached an old aqueduct1 and followed the earthen bank. The channel was dry, choked with vegetation and leaf litter. The bank had ferns growing along it and a few fallen trees down, but otherwise provided pleasant walking and easy navigation. The aqueduct fitted into the landscape, having been taken back by the forest. But it was a reminder that there was history in here, and it wasn’t the untouched wilderness it first appeared.
The start of the walk along the disused aqueduct.
More mountain ash grew along here. They’d been shedding their bark in ribbons tens of feet long, which festooned the surrounding trees and piled up on the ground at their bases.
Off to the right the valley dipped steeply down to where the creek splashed noisily in its bed. The forest was more open and brighter down there, the home of huge beech trees. The understory of treeferns obscured any sight of the water. The last of the morning fog had taken refuge in the valley, softening the view with its haze.
The creek valley below the aqueduct.
The sound of the water increased as I walked along, but the creek itself remained stubbornly hidden in the undergrowth. Then suddenly a tiny bridge appeared in front of me, just two logs fastened together with crosspieces, and I’d arrived at the creek.
The swift-flowing creek was shin-deep and a couple of metres wide. It was half-choked with fallen timber, all moss-covered. Ferns, grasses, and bushes grew right up to the edge of the banks, hemming in the water. Treefern fronds and tree branches reached across overhead. Fat vines hung down from so far above that they seemed to drop from the sky.
The bridge looked old — they certainly aren’t built this way anymore — but appeared to be in good condition despite the many long years of neglect. Cautiously I stepped on it. The wet logs weren’t too slippery, but the crosspieces were as slick as ice.
The creek valley provided the first substantial views.
Mid-stream I stopped to admire the scene down the creek valley. In front of me was a cascade of treefern fronds. Behind them rose some huge old beeches, and behind them mountain ash. The view was softened by the fog rising from the wet rainforest. Beams of golden light shot through the haze, but the overwhelming impression was of green: dark green and light, smooth textures and rough, and everything gleaming with a sheen of water.
What lay beyond the far end of the bridge was concealed by a wall of glossy dark green leaves. When I stepped off the bridge and through the foliage I entered a world of darkness and muddy dampness. Just past the bridge was a minor branch of the creek running across the forest floor, well above the level of the main creek. It wasn’t deep, but I was glad of my boots and gaiters.
The forest next to the creek consisted mostly of treeferns. Their fronds were so dense that it was as dark as night beneath them, making it hard to see where I was stepping. I kept close to the creek where it was a bit brighter, and followed it up to the remains of the small weir once used to supply the aqueduct. The wet ground gave off a rich earthy smell. To my right a bank rose up steeply, a few metres high. I scrambled up to find an open shelf cut into the hillside, the remains of an old timber tramway formation2.
Heading up the side of the valley towards the old tramway formation.
The course of the original track, now marked with a few tapes, heads straight uphill from the bridge, climbing through the forest to reach the old tramway further back from where I was. The first time I came here I followed the tapes and got temporarily lost by continuing too far uphill. But I wasn’t the first to do so: I discovered a machete next to a log in a small clearing.
I walked along the tramway and reached a wider flat space cut out of the hillside3, right above the creek. At the far end a massive mountain ash had long ago fallen across the track, leaving a small gap underneath. Nailed to its trunk and pointing downwards was a red arrow.
Timber and Trees
The gap below the log was barely big enough to crawl through. The log’s underside was slimy, and the ground beneath it muddy. On the far side the track was running with water. It was a messy operation squeezing underneath, with both me and my pack getting smeared with mud. I must have been quite a sight when I rode home later.
The creek valley now came into its own. There was no track, but no need for one. Close by on the left the creek flowed in its stony bed. On the right the forest swept up the steep side of the valley. In between was enough space for enjoyable walking, and without a path I was free to wander wherever I wanted.
The valley felt enclosed, and not just by the hillsides, but also by the roof-like canopy far above, supported by tree trunk pillars. Within this living hall there was a whole forest of smaller trees and ferns. The sense of being inside something was heightened where the brightness of the outside world broke through the foliage, accentuating the darkness within.
Everywhere and everything was green: the treetops that hid the sky, the hillsides, the treeferns that filled the valley, the moss-covered stones and logs on the ground. Mosses grew on everything: some were like little spikes, some like fans, some shaggy, and others like miniature ferns. From the branches hung long beards of moss that waved in the breeze.
In the valley everything is green: the ferns, mosses, and trees.
The hillside rose steeply away from the creek, smothered by vegetation. Treeferns predominated down low. Above them were the beeches, the bigger ones with misshapen trunks, and colonized by epiphytic ferns. Standing above all were the mountain ash. Where the ridgeline was visible it was fringed with silhouettes of the big trees.
But the valley belonged to the creek. The sound of water was ever-present, with the creek tumbling over a series of little cascades. The water was clear, tinted golden-brown by tannin, and flowed over a bed of pale gravel and dark stones. Where the stones stood proud of the water they were covered with moss. The margins of the creek were guarded by soft mud, ready to swallow a misplaced foot.
Some things are missing here, though. Animal life is scarce, with only occasional groups of robins chittering through the low foliage or scolding an intruder. Lyrebirds are uncommon here, though I’ve seen plenty both lower down and higher up. And flowers are rarely found: it’s a green world where leaves prevail, ranging from tiny beech leaves up to gigantic treefern fronds metres long.
It feels like a pristine wilderness here, but that’s definitely not the case. A century ago this was the site of industry. The first clues were the earlier aqueduct and the small cuttings and embankments of the tramway formation. There are other clues here in the valley too: one beech tree has grown around an old steel rail4 which now pierces the middle of the trunk. Further along there’s another rail on the ground looking like a moss-covered tree root. Further up the mountain there are a couple more relics waiting to be found.
The tramway was used to plunder the mountain ash from the forest, stripping it bare, so only a few of the truly huge trees are left. Others have grown since, but they need much more time to achieve their full size. For all that though, it is remarkable how well the forest has recovered.
As I walked along beside the creek I reached the wreckage of a few trees that had fallen together over the winter. I scrambled through the mess of slippery trunks and branches, which slid and broke under my weight.
Spaced out along the valley were a few more mountain ash logs that had long ago come down across the track. But unlike the first one, these I could walk under. It was just as well, since they were so big — easily two metres thick — that climbing over them would be impractical, and so long that going around them would be very difficult. These trees look big when upright, but when lying on the ground their true size is astounding.
The valley began climbing gently. I reached a side gully where a small tributary stream ran down from my right. There was an enormous beech tree here, its gnarled and misshapen trunk black in the semi-darkness of the forest. High above its branches were in stark silhouette, the topmost leaves glowing where they reached the light.
This beech is a landmark for me, as it’s where my first walk in this forest ended. That day I’d only been scouting and was running out of time, so I decided to make this tree my turn-around point. But before heading back I’d sat in the peaceful shadows beneath the tree to soak in the beauty of the valley while I ate my lunch.
My landmark beech.
The gully just beyond the beech was choked with fallen timber. Uphill it looked to be impenetrable. Downhill towards the creek looked easier, and I worked my way into the muddy floor of the gully. I found a small stream trickling down towards the main creek. The whole gully was wet and dark, as though it was channeling not just water but the darkness too.
Emerging on the other side I could see no clear route, but straight uphill looked most promising. It was a steep scramble and it wasn’t long before I found myself on a more defined path, once again following the old tramway. This was the start of the incline5.
On this section of the old tramway, wagons loaded with timber were lowered down by cable. This necessitated a straight and evenly graded alignment to prevent the cable from snagging. The gradient did feel even (and steep), but it didn’t feel as straight as it actually was, disguised by a century of regrowth and erosion.
The forest brightened once the incline was reached.
The incline was mostly easy to follow but, even so, in many places it would be hard to recognize it as a track if you weren’t already on it. It was disguised by a deep cover of leaves, bark and sticks, which crunched under my boots as I climbed. In places the track had been taken over by treeferns, their huge fronds obscuring the path. Fallen trees added to the obstacles, though none were hard to get past.
The rapid ascent provided views over the creek valley to my left. Behind me I could see the treetops of the heavy forest near the creek, including my beech. As I gained altitude and headed away from the creek the forest became more open, feeling airy and less confining than before. The sound of the creek gradually faded until I could hear it no longer.
Taking a break on the climb up the lower incline.
After a long climb I reached an elongated flat space carved out of the steep mountainside. It was clear of trees, but still covered by the solid canopy above. This flat was about halfway up the climb, so it made a good place to rest after so much exertion. When I stopped walking the silence was perfect.
Being at the top of an incline, this area may have been where wagons were prepared for the descent down the tramway. Some exploration here revealed more relics from the industrial past, with several sections of steel cable6 snaking incongruously through the undergrowth.
The relatively wide area didn’t converge to any obvious exit point. The first time I was up here I spent ten minutes poking around before I found it. It’s not hard to spot it when you know, but all the same, I’ve added flagging tape to make it easier for myself and anyone else passing through.
The track stayed fairly flat for a while, which was welcome, though I knew it wouldn’t last. A rivulet was running down the side of the track. The sound of rushing water increased, and after about a hundred metres I arrived at its source: a small creek running down a gully in the steep hillside on my right, and disappearing into the valley on my left.
The small side creek was so choked with fallen timber that the creek itself was all but hidden.
The gully was thick with vegetation. The creek itself was hidden under a jumble of fallen timber, all covered in bright green moss. Whether these logs were the remains of a bridge, or whether some calamity knocked down a bunch of trees together, I couldn’t tell. The chaos made it difficult to see where the track continued. Previously I’ve walked up the creek itself a short way, then crashed through the bushes. Today I tried a short, steep scramble directly across the creek, and was soon back on the track.
A minute or so along the overgrown track I found some derelict machinery off to the side, easily missed as it was partially concealed by ferns and fallen trees. This was the lowering gear, which had been used to control wagons on the incline. It was dominated by two big steel spools used for the cables, along with the remains of some of the controls7. The spools in particular looked surprisingly solid given they’ve been sitting unused in the forest for a hundred years.
The two linked spools of the lowering gear. There’s a brake lever on each side: the left one has fallen to the ground, while the right one is still upright.
Bald Mountain
Leaving the lowering gear behind, I came to a more open stretch in the lush forest which was clearly a favourite with the lyrebirds. Directly one after another were three lyrebird mounds on the track itself, which I imagine provided a conveniently flat and open space for the birds8. A little further on I spotted an implausible-looking lump flying through the trees, which was the first time I’ve seen a lyrebird in flight (I wasn’t even sure they could fly).
Another tiny creek crossed the track a little way on from the lowering gear.
The brief respite from climbing came to an end when I reached the start of the upper incline. I continued my way up the seemingly endless uphill on a track smothered by leaves and sticks. The forest gradually dried out as I gained elevation. The treeferns in particular became less common, which in turn opened up the views through the forest.
I began to spot some big boulders dotted amongst the trees above the track. Occasionally I saw massive tree stumps with slots cut into them. These were made by loggers so they could insert boards into the trunks to stand on while felling the trees. Even a hundred or more years later, they’re still visible.
The forest ended abruptly at a glade that opened up on the steep mountainside — free of trees, but filled with ferns… and a few nettles to catch the unwary. It was a good place for another quick rest. For the first time I had clear views of the ridges surrounding the valley, giving me a feeling of having reached a milestone. I’d climbed about 500 metres (it felt like more), with another 100 metres or so remaining.
Breaking out of the forest into the first of the glades.
The ferns hid the rocky ground, slowing my pace since I needed to take care with each step. And being out in the open, away from the confines of the old tramway formation, meant there was no clear guide as to where the track used to go. I was much more reliant on locating flagging tape in the trees, and I refreshed it and added more as I went. It’s a satisfying feeling to come back to a walk and follow a trail I’ve marked myself.
The foot pad passed through a thick belt of beech and woollybutt, then it was back into the glades. I could see the sky between the trees ahead, which I took as a hopeful sign I would soon reach the ridgetop. But first I had to get past two large trees lying one on top of the other — it appeared an unlucky tree had been brought down when another tree fell. Scrambling over them was awkward given their size, but once past them it wasn’t far to the top.
Belts of forest separated the glades.
The vegetation changed as soon as I reached the ridgetop, the ferny glades replaced by thick, low scrub. It was bright and sunny up here with less tree cover. The woollybutts remained plentiful, though the beeches had become rare. After walking along the gentle ridge for a while, I could see a small plateau ahead through the trees.
One last sharp climb got me to the top of the plateau. I strolled along a track bordered by short trees so thickly covered with dark green leaves that they looked like a hedge. A gap appeared and led into an open circle ringed by the dark trees: I’d reached the summit. A few moss-covered rock slabs helped to keep the scrub at bay. The trees formed a solid screen, so there were no views to be had, but in compensation this unusual summit gained a feeling of serenity and isolation. This peak isn’t a popular one anymore — maybe its charms are too modest — but it appealed to me.
Following the border of dark trees approaching the summit.
The hardest work for the day was done, and it was time for lunch. The sheltered summit was quite warm in the sun, with the trees blocking the breeze. I sought out some shade in the margins of the hedge while I had my pie, bananas, and tea.
It was so quiet it felt like the forest was holding its breath. Only the flies buzzing around lazily in the warmth broke the silence. When my lunch was finished, I strolled around the summit area. I heard a quiet rustling and saw the tail of a tiger snake sliding into the scrub. I suddenly felt grateful for my gaiters: this morning they were useful for the water and mud, but up here, where much of the ground is obscured by vegetation, they’re my defence against unseen snakes.
A big afternoon of walking awaited me, so I didn’t linger. The climb to the summit had taken a long time due to the combination of the steep, difficult terrain and tricky navigation. Although the return downhill would be faster, it would also present its own unique challenges.
The walk back along the ridge was easy, and I made my best speed of the day. However, I slowed considerably as soon as I dropped off the ridge to begin the main descent. Following the route took some care even with tape in the trees, and once again the rocky ground beneath the ferns enforced a slow pace. The payoff was improved scenery: fern-filled glades instead of scrub.
Heading downhill through a sea of ferns.
Off to my right I could hear the beautifully musical singing of a lyrebird. It alternated between its own song and mimicking various other birds: rosellas, black cockatoos, and kookaburras. It’s always a giveaway when the sounds of so many different birds are all emanating from the same place.
While I was picking my way through the ferns, I heard the rustling of a snake close by, concealed by the vegetation. Once again, I was glad of my gaiters: the snakes I can’t see bother me more than those I can.
In the last big glade I stopped for a moment before plunging back into the forest. My legs were still getting used to the switch from climbing to descending and could use a break. I heard a cheeping, and spotted a pink robin zipping around looking for insects. He showed no fear of me at all, coming quite close. He sat still long enough for me to be able to admire his beautiful colouring before he flew off again.
Back in the forest, leaving the glades behind.
I re-entered the forest and began the long, steep descent down the incline. The walk down was naturally much easier than my earlier climb, though care was needed to avoid slipping on the leaf litter and rocks covering the path. The track felt completely different now I was facing downhill. The view ahead was all treetops, emphasizing how steep it was. I hadn’t realized earlier, but while walking uphill the view had been dominated by the path itself.
A fallen tree propped up over the track on the steep descent.
While walking the track downhill was physically easier than going uphill, it came at the price of more difficult navigation. A few places that had posed no problem this morning now proved surprisingly tricky, and mistakes weren’t necessarily apparent until already well off course.
After passing the lowering gear, an obvious way continued ahead, contouring across the mountainside. However, this wasn’t the track, but instead an old grade line9. Back when this area was logged the tramway had a junction here, with the left fork being the grade line, and the right (partially concealed by vegetation) continuing the descent.
I headed downhill after adding another piece of flagging tape, since this junction had given me pause, and not for the first time.
I soon reached the side creek choked with fallen timber, and scrambled down to ford it. I continued along as far as the halfway flat, where I took a short break to give my legs a rest from the descent. I found some large fungi shaped like scallop shells growing on a dead branch. But spring wasn’t the season for fungi, and I hadn’t seen much besides bracket fungi. In autumn there’s much more to see including my favourite, the beautiful blue-cyan caps of pixie’s parasol (Mycena interrupta).
Fungi growing at the halfway flat.
The spectacular Mycena interrupta can be found in autumn. I spotted these ones down in the creek valley on an earlier walk.
The incline started again, and once more I was struck by how the view ahead emphasized the steepness of the descent. The forest increased in lushness as I dropped into the valley, and I could hear the creek again. The descent ended at the small side stream in its dark gully. As before, I found a way through the mud and fallen trees to rejoin the creek valley proper.
The bright sun lit the leaves of the trees far above, and the canopy glowed green. I walked along beside the creek, surrounded by moss and ferns. I was glad to be back in my green world, but that was tempered by the knowledge that the walk was drawing to an end. I headed over to the creek in a few of the more scenic places to prolong the moment.
I reached the last, low log across the track, and made the muddy crawl underneath. This part of the track was also a grade line and, like the earlier one, presented navigational problems when descending. To reach the bridge I needed to reverse this morning’s walk by dropping off the side and heading down to the bridge through the thick treeferns. I made it to the bridge without too much trouble, but I’ve been less fortunate other times, resulting in crashing around in a damp, dark maze of treeferns and fallen timber.
At the bridge I emerged from the darkness of the rainforest into the bright, open creek valley. I crossed the log bridge and continued along the old aqueduct. The walking was easy and pleasant, with views over the valley. When I stopped for a moment, a high-pitched and mellifluous “whiss whiss whiss” rang out, the alarm call of a lyrebird. I saw it running through the undergrowth a few metres below: it had been disturbed by my presence, but if it hadn’t called or moved, I’d never have seen it.
Treeferns bursting with new fronds at the bridge.
The navigational problems started again when the track left the aqueduct, which was frustrating given how close I was to the end of the walk. Heading the other way this morning wasn’t too hard, with a foot pad or some tape always to be found. But in this direction the foot pad never seems clear. It follows an awkward line a little above the valley floor but below the aqueduct, and it’s easy to be drawn too far one side or the other.
I reached a big tree I recognized and had a straight run out to the road, hampered only by the return of the long wire-grass and tangled blackberry canes. Standing there on the grassy roadside, the forest looked unremarkable. All the secret beauty and wonder I’d found within was well concealed.
A collection of highlights from walks I made here between September and December 2023.
Homecoming
I’ve done this walk — or parts of it — half a dozen times, and I’m yet to meet anybody out there. Apart from the old tape left by past adventurers, there’s no sign anyone else has walked there for many years. It’s amazing to have somewhere so beautiful all to myself. But it’s not a lonely place, rather a haven of peace and solitude. There are no crowds of people, and no sounds besides wind, water, and birdsong.
The price to be paid for this is difficult navigation across difficult terrain. It was hard at first, but as I learned the ways of the forest, there was a pleasure in recognizing the special trees and places, and discovering relics from the past. Now when I’m deep in the heart of the forest I feel I belong.
The first time I made it into the creek valley I was enchanted by the scenery surrounding me: the sweep of treeferns up the hillside, the mossy old beeches, the creek babbling in its stony bed. But as I walked along, an eerie, unsettling cry filled the forest.
Further ahead, a fallen mountain ash spanned the track. I became aware of a small, dark shadow on top of the mossy log. I stood silently, watching: the cry I’d heard was coming from the shadow. The creature turned to face me, and I saw it was a small, stocky, black cat.
We eyed each other for a slow minute, motionless. The cat was wary but unafraid. Her eyes were locked on mine, her gaze disconcertingly intense. Eventually she scurried furtively down the log and disappeared into the forest across the creek.
And so I continued on, passing under the log, and into the gloom beneath the trees. When I was out of sight the cat returned to her haunt, and again sent her lonely, plaintive cries out into the shadows.
Footnotes
- I’ve been unable to discover what the aqueduct was used for, but since water was needed to run the steam-powered sawmills and winches back in the logging days, my guess is it was used to supply a mill. ↩︎
- A tramway (or railway) formation is where the ground has been prepared for track to be laid. This includes excavating cuttings and building up embankments. ↩︎
- The area was wide enough for more than one tramway track, so this may have been the site of a siding. It’s not far below where there was a junction in the tramway, and higher up there is a similar arrangement of a large open area below a junction. ↩︎
- When the tramway closed most of the rails were removed, with only a few damaged ones left behind. ↩︎
- An incline is a tramway characterized by being steep and straight. Wagons were lowered down the slope by cables controlled from the top of the incline. ↩︎
- Timber tramways often sourced old cable from Melbourne’s cable tram system. The cable was cheap, but already worn out. This meant there was an increased chance of breakage, with the associated risk to the people and infrastructure below. ↩︎
- The arrangement of the spools on a common shaft suggests it worked as a funicular. That is, when loaded wagons were lowered down the incline they pulled cable from one spool, which simultaneously wound cable on to the other one, pulling the empty wagons uphill. ↩︎
- Male lyrebirds clear a mound of bare earth in the forest on which they perform their songs and display their plumage to attract a female. ↩︎
- Unlike an incline, a grade line is a tramway that is relatively flat and follows the contours of the terrain. Horses or small locomotives were used to haul wagons on a grade line. ↩︎
