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 __Trains ex-Central to Richmond - Saturday.__
-* 8.30 a.m. (Electric. - change Granville)
+  * 8.30 a.m. (Electric. - change Granville)
-* 9.15 a.m. (Through steam service)
+  * 9.15 a.m. (Through steam service)
   * 11.26 a.m.(Electric - change Granville)
   * 12.52 p.m. (Through steam service)
@@ Line 129: / Line 129: @@
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-NIGHT ON POL BLUE CREEK
+=====Night On The Pol Blue Creek.=====
 By Jim Brown.
-I suppose almost all walkers have shared this experience - to cone suddenly on a vista so satisfying that one pauses in a mood of exhilaration, exultation, exaltation (one of those humours, or perhaps a blend of the three). Eventually you drag yourself away reluctantly
-from the vision splendid, but you can't banish the recollection from
+I suppose almost all walkers have shared this experience - to come suddenly on a vista so satisfying that one pauses in a mood of exhilaration, exultation, exaltation (one of those humours, or perhaps a blend of the three). Eventually you drag yourself away reluctantly from the vision splendid, but you can't banish the recollection from your mind, and you promise to return and drink in all the richness again. When you come back, a tree has been cut down, or it is overcast, or the blackberries have grown up: perhaps you simply canft seem to find the exact spot, and you begin to wonder whether it was all as superb as you've persuaded yourself for so long.
-your mind, and you promise to return and drink in all the richness again.. When you come back, a tree has been cut down, or it is overcast, or the blackberries have grown up: perhaps you simply canft seem to find the
-exact spot, and you begin to wonder whether it was all as superb as youfvcz persuaded yourself for so long.
+On a couple of my earliest walking trips I found something that seemed sublime. One was a distant view of the coastal plain and the sea one bright wintry morning near Robertson. The other was an approach to Kanangra Walls at dawn when the valley was brimming with hummocky clouds of steely blue-grey and the sun rose to trace a path of rosy light across the bleak, fantastic cloud mountains. On both occasions I was quite entranced and went on feeling that this sort of thing quite compensated for any hardships of bushwalking (there were plenty of tough times on those inexperienced early trips). In later years I revisited the lookout near Robertson and found it was quite a lovely view, but no finer than a dozen others up and down the Illawarra ranges.
-On a couple of my earliest walking trips I found something that
-seemed sublime. One was a distant view of the coastal plain and the
+More recently I ceased to feel these intense enthusiasms, and began to wonder if I were growing blase, and had lost the capacity to sense atmosphere and feel wonderment. You knowl you don't want to feel that the whole world is slowing becoming a grey, featureless place - rather like growing old in mind, perhaps. So it was very re-assuring a few summers back to fall head over heels in love with our camp site in Cotter Gap - a quiet, cool-green clearing with a tiny silent creek, the whole hemmed in by great tumbled boulders of granite, a very garden within a Stonehenge.
-sea one bright wintry morning near Robertson. The other was an approach to Kanangra Walls at dawn when the valley was brimming with hummocky clouds of steely blue-grey and the sun rose to trace a path of rosy light across the bleak, fantastic cloud mountains. On both occasions I was quite entranced and went an feeling that this sort of thing quite compensated for any hardships of bushwalking (there wore plenty of tough
-times on those inexperienced early trips). In later years I revisited
+Confirmation of the capacity to "feel" for a place came with our annual holidays at the end of last summer. We (that is, Kath and I) approached Barrington Tops by the orthodox route up Stewart's Brook and over Meehan's Peak to Mount Barrington. We made a fixed camp at about 4,800 feet on the headwaters of Barrington River, and spent two days wandering the familiar parts of the Tops - the ruins of Crosbiefs old house, Carey's Peak, the jungled valleys which cleave the mountain sides right to the grassy tops. To my mind, the gums of Barrington are quite as lovely as those of the Southern Alps, and at that time of the year the display of Austral bluebells and daisies and small terrestial orchids on the snow meadows are a delight. We had the Tops to ourselves.
-the lookout near Robertson and found it was quite a lovely view, but no finer than a dozen others up and down the Illawarra ranges.
-More recently I ceased to feel these intense enthusiasms, and began
+We planned to go out by the road running north to Tomalla, about 15 miles from our camp, we estimated. It meant, however, that we would be walking right off the map. Apart from the South East Tourist Sheet (about 10 miles to the inch) and the quarter scale "Tamworth" military sheet (which I'd been unable to buy) there seems to be no map coverage once you reach the edge of the Woolooma survey. We had heard, though, that motors had once made it through to Crosbie's, and unless timber cutters had obscured the way with a network of side trails, considered we should be able to find the path. At about 1 p.m. on a Tuesday, we broke camp.
-to wonder if I were growing blase, and had lost the capacity to sense
-atmosphere and feel wonderment. You knowl'you don't want to feel that the whole world is slowing becoming a grey, featureless place - rather like growing old in mind, perhaps. So it was very re-assuring a few
+The old road wandered away to the north east through alternating patches of snow gum and across highland meadows. In places tree falls had obscured the way, but always there were faint treads flanking the wreckage. Once, at the outlet of a swamp we came to the broken down ruins of an old log bridge and glimpsed far blue distances down the valley, but mostly the horizon was limited to the pastel-tinted plateau, drowsy in the warm afternoon sun, and with the sleepy sound of summer insects as musical score. Great tumbling black and white clouds welled angrily in the south west sky.
-summers back to fall head over heels in love with our camp site in Cotter Gap - a quiet, cool-green clearing with a tiny Silent creek,
-the whole hemmed in by great tumbled boulders of granite, a very garden within a Stonehenge.
+During mid afternoon we came to the edge of a plain perhaps a mile across, and we knew were on the limit of our map. Perhaps half way across our faint pad debouched on to a clear road, which showed evidence of bull-dozing at an earlier date, and marched steadily to the north. There, too, in solitary state in the centre of the big plain was a metal standard, from which a wind sock fluttered in the light airs. Plainly we were on an emergency air strip, and we learned later that the track on which we had emerged leads to a river gauge on the Upper Barrington.
-Confirmation of the capacity to "feelu for a place oame with our
-annual holidays at the end of last summer. We (that is, Kath and I)
+There was some backing and filling to avoid isolating a large Hereford bull from his covey of cows before we completed the crossing of the plain and forded the swift, cold trout stream at its north edge. Then our way was again through open forest with lush grasses, sprinkled with blue and yellow flowers, and occasionally through swampy upland meadows, russet in the afternoon light.
-approached Barrington Tops by the orthodox route up Stewart's Brook
-and over Meehanfs Peak to Mount Barrington. We made a fixed camp at about 4,800 feet on the headwaters of Barrington River, and spent two days wandering the familiar parts of the Tops - the ruins of Crosbiefs old house, Carey's Peak, the jungled valleys which cleave the mountain sides right to the grassy tops. To my mind, the gums of Barrington are quite as lovely as those of the Southern Alps, and at that time of the year the display of Austral bluebells and daisies and small terrestial orchids an the snow meadows are a delight. We had the Tops to ourselves.
+An hour and a half later we began to descend gently and came to another plain with a fast clear creek flowing north west to join the Hunter. Hard by the ford was the frame of an old shanty, some old stockyards, and beyond the stream was a slope with deep grass and tall, straight timbers glowing in the stormy yellow light. There we camped. The threat of the clouds had not been realised, but there had been a light shower, enough to put a glitter on the leaves. From our camp, looking back through the fine straight trees to the meadow and the wooded hill beyond, it was a fairy tale place of gold and grey and green, with distant smoky lights in the valley and a livid sky of storm scud and sunset.
-We planned to go but by the road running north to Tomalla, about 15 miles from our camp, we estimated. It meant, however, that we would be walking right off the map. Apart from the TouthrEast Tourist Sheet (about 10 miles to the inch) and the quarter scale ITamworth" military sheet (which I'd been unable to buy) there seems to be no nap coverage once you reach the edge of the Woolooma survey. We had heard, though,
-.
+It felt strange and contradictory, somehow. The road, obviously used not long before, these calm, fertile valleys, with their placid cattle, seemed to argue habitation, yet we had not seen a human in three days, and there was an odd lost loneliness about the plateau. It was even more striking later in damp, chilly darkness, with our so tiny tent almost vanishing in tall grasses, the so tiny fire like a lone candle in a silent gloomy cathedral. The night was windless. I have camped alone in our Blue Mountains often enough, but never felt the night so oppressive - not in a fearsome way, but in a vast, lonely way. Perhaps it was because we were high, with only low black ridges as a vague skyline against a limitless darkness.
-that motors had once made it through to,Crosbiefs, and unless timber. cutters had obscured the way with a:network of side trails, considered we should be able to find the path. At about,' p.m. on a Tuesday, we broke camp.
-The old road wandered away to the north east through alternating patches of snow gum and across highland meadows. In places tree falls had obscured the way, huh always there were _Lfaint treads flanking the wreckage. Once, at the outlet of a swamp we came to the broken down
+We turned in early, and as we made ready for our sleeping bags, two aircraft passed swiftly above. We could see the spurting flame from the exhaust of the nearer. If anything, the silence that followed was all the more ponderous. I can't recall feeling before such an impression of immense space coupled with crowding darkness as that night by Pol Blue Creek. One was really "off the map" - yet at hand was a fair road!
-D ruins of an old log bridge and glimpsed far blue distqaces down the valley, but mostly the horizon was limited to the pasil-einbed plateau, drowsy in the warm afternoon sun, and with the sleep3 sound of su=e2 insects as musical score. Great tumbling black and white clouds welled angrily in the south west sky.
-During mid afternoon we care to the edge of a plain perhaps a mile across, and we knew were on the limit of our map Perhaps half way across our faint pad debouched on to a clear road, which showed evidence of bull-dozing at an earlier date, and marched steadily to the north. There, too, in solitary state in the centre of the big plain was a metal standard, from which a wind sock fluttered in the lig1-t airs,
+Morning was almost anti-climax. Some six or seven miles more along the road brought us to the first farm at Hunter Springs (Tubrabucca). Our expected big "drop down" from the plateau didn't occur, and we lost only a few hundred feet in elevation, walking our easy road through gracious flowery sub-alpine forest and field. The Meehan family at Hunter Springs greeted us in the open-handed fashion of country folk, and transported us the following morning to Moonan, the terminal of the 'bus from Scone. We went home on a hot, windy summer day which made it difficult to believe the small valley of Pol Blue Creek, coldly dark under brilliant stars and a black sky, had ever been.
-we were on an emergency air strip, and we learned later tha: the tliack on which we had emerged leads to a river gauge on the Upper Barrington.
-There was some backing and filling to avoid isolating a large Hereford bull from his covey of cows before we completed the crossing of the plain and forded the swift, cold trout stream at its north edge. Then our way was again through open forest with lush grasses, sprinkled
-with blue and yellow flowers, and occasionally through swampy upland meadows, russet in the afternoon light.
-An hour and a half later we began to descend gently and came to another plain with a fast clear creek flowing north west to join the Hunter. Hard by the ford was the frame of an old shanty, some old stockyards, and beyond the stream was a slope with deep grass and tall,
-straight timbers glowttg in the stormy yellow light. There we camped.
-The threat of the clouds had not been realised, but there had been a light shower, enough to put a glitter on the leaves. From our camp,
-looking back through the fine straight trees to the meadow and the wooded hill beyond, it was a fairy tale place of gold and grey and green, with distant smoky lights in the valley and a livid sky of storm scud and sunset.-
-It felt strange and contradictory, somehow. The road, obviously used
-* not long before, these calm, fertile valleys, with their placid cattle, seemed to argue habitation, yet we had not seen a human in three days, and there was an odd lost loneliness about the plateau. It was even more striking later in damp, chilly darkness, with our so tiny tent almost vanishing in tall grasses, the so tiny fire like a lone candle in a silent gloomy cathedral. The night was windless. I have camped alone in our Blue Mountains often enough, but never felt the night so oppressive - not
-in a fearsome way, but in a vaste, lonely wag. Perhaps it was because we were high, with only low black ridges as a vague skyline against
-a limitless darkness.
-.
-We turned in early, and as we made ready for our sleeping bags, two aircraft passed swiftly above. We could see the spurting flame from the exhaust of the nearer. If anything, the silence that followed was all the more ponderous. I can't recall feeling before such an impression of immense space coupled with crowding darkness as that night by Pol
-Blue Creek. One was really "off the map" - yet at hand was a fair roads
-Morning was almost anti-climax. Some six or seven miles more along the road brought us to the first farm at Hunter Springs (Tubrabucca). Our expected big "drop down" from the plateau didn't occur, and we lost only a few hundred feet in elevation, walking our easy road through gracious flowery sub-alpine forest and field. The Meehan family at Hunter Springs greeted us in the open-handed fashion of country folk, and transported us the following =riling to Moonan, the terminal of the 'bus from Scone. We went home on a hot, windy summer day which made it difficult to believe the small valley of Pol Blue Creek, coldly dark under brilliant stars and a black sky, had ever been.
 There was a dream-like quality about that spot, and I hope to find it when I go back.
-[=raml.m.lememninliiiM=MINNEP
+----
 ERA _FOR THE BUSHINALKERS.
 By T.W. Moppett.