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--- 195912 [2016/04/08 16:13] – [The Walkers' Burden] kennettj
+++ 195912 [2016/04/08 16:26] – [Yengo] kennettj
@@ Line 122: / Line 122: @@
 To my mind there are two logical approaches to the mountain. One is via the Putty Road mentioned heretofore: and the other is by the stock route that travels west from the Old Northern Road near Wollombi, and eventually ends on the grassy shoulders of the mountain. The latter is the easier, but longer, so I elected to go via the Putty Road - MacDonald River route.
-After the publication of my confessions of the previous abortive jaunt, Dorothy Lawry sent me 'from New Zealand an account of a trip to Yengo in company with other S.B.W. members, back in the 1930's. It made me wonder whether I had been optimistic in hoping to get to aid from the mountain in the limited space of a normal two day weekend,. However, there was the counter eviden ce of the nap. It was only eight, miles down the Macdonald River frail the 16oad bridge, then abott three miles of
-ridge involving an ascent of maybe 1,700' Surely the Macdonall River couldn't be worse than mile an hour going.
-It's grimly cold at 5.0 a m. on an A'ugust noming, and in the hollows along the road to Windsor the headlights bounced back off pockets of mist; it was very soupy in the Hawkesbury Valley, and the 'three miles from Windsor to Wilberforce were made miserable by the dazzle from headlights of a following car, but once I was rising on to the ridges between Wilberforce and Central Colo, the air cleared and there was promise of a lovely late winter' s day.
-The Colo was cold-black and smoky in the pearly morning light and there was heavy frost: my gloved hands were numb on the wheel up through Colo Height s, and then the sun came up and made the day brilliant. At seventy five miles from home I ran on to the gravel road, and at a hundred and three I crossed the Macdonald and stopped on the grassy patch at the roadside. A brief halt to drain the radiator and drink tea from a thermos flask, and at eight o'clock I wet my feet in the first numbing crossing of the river.
-The Macdonald at this point flows between grassy shores, with undulating slopes rising to timbered hills: the wattles were vivid against the wintry blue sky. Only two or three inches of water, rippling a sinuous course over the sandy bed, and seldom occupying more than half the width of the watercourse.
-For about an hour it was easy going: crossings were frequent but the open grassed banks a delight. My socks aid sandshoes filled up with coarse river sand till there was no more space, and because the water was so cold I plodded along on feet that had m real sensation.
-.
-Almost three miles down from the mad, the river changes. I still can't be sure whether it changes rapidly or by degrees: I know that I suddenly realised that I was
-more often on the sand of the river bed (and frequently splashing down the shallow stream) than on dry banks. A little further on, with the shores becoming less hospitable, rock strewn and grown with patches of dense shrubbery, I gave away all pretence of trying to follow the banks, and simply splashed down the river. It was very
-shallow,  and only rarely did one sink above the ankle in sand, but it was bitterly
-cold, and my feet and legs remained a fragile purple tint all morning.
-At. 10 a m., at the junction of Howes Valley Creek I decided I was a fool to keep
-my shoes and socks on, so wrung them out and put them on my pack, and went on barefoot it was much better, and I continued to make l miles an hour down the middle of Macdonald River, passing Pipeclay Creek, Yokey Creek, and, finally coming at midday
-to Yokey Swamp Creek, All the way from Howes Valley Creek the Macdonald passes
-through a shallow but quite rough valley with good. enough river-bed walking, but rough, slow banks- if you want to go dry-shod.
-I lunched opposite the outflow of Yokey. Swamp, left some non-essential gear wrapped in a groundsheet, put on footwear again, and at 1.30 started up the ridge to the east. A few rocky ledges and some thick vegetation slowed me down at first, but
-within 15 minutes the ridge was clear ahead, and in just over half an hour I breasted
-a rise where the spur flattened out: there she was - off to my left and ahead -
-Big Yengo, a thousand feet up, ita steep grassy shoulders crotched in a lazy sleep of golden afternoon.
- For twenty minutes or so the ridge was almost flat, then the forest thinned cut, and I was puffing at the steady incline. Whenever I stopped to get my wind (and that
-was often) I found tIB horizon widening, and long before I reached the sivermi  t trig I
-was looking to Kurrajong Heights (and was it Mount King George?) in the south and south west, to the other big basalt tops of Tyan Pic, Uraterer, Coricudgy, Monundilla in the west, and away, awaY' to the clear blue towers of Barrington in the north.
-Fran the top when I arrived at 3.0 p m. I could glimpse the ocean, but found the views of known ground to the west so enthralling I forgot to try to identify any easterly landmark: it must have been there, but I can't even. recall seeing Mount Warramolong, inland from Morisset. No wonder, I thought , no wonder Yengo crowds the skyline when you look at him from, say, over then.
-Just before four o'clock I left the top: rather reluctantly, I left it, wondering if d carried up enough gear to camp overnight , and deciding that I couldn't camp without water, and the only promising gully was too far down.
-The short winter day closed down as I camped in an. abominable place on sand: that' s all you can: find, on that part of the Macdonald. Just as well the night was mild. Frosty sand would make a. abockIng bed, even with the thin sprinkling of dry leaves and bracken I raked up.
+After the publication of my confessions of the previous abortive jaunt, Dorothy Lawry sent me from New Zealand an account of a trip to Yengo in company with other S.B.W. members, back in the 1930's. It made me wonder whether I had been optimistic in hoping to get to and from the mountain in the limited space of a normal two day weekend. However, there was the counter evidence of the map. It was only eight miles down the Macdonald River from the road bridge, then about three miles of ridge involving an ascent of maybe 1,700' Surely the Macdonall River couldn't be worse than mile an hour going.
-Came the brilliant Sunday morning, and I decided my feet were too sand-papered to do an ,mstream canter along the Macdonald, so I took to the ridges. Apart fran a certain amount of navigational it they were undistinguished dry, barren looking spurs, but they served to bring me to the road, from miles south of the bridge, before 11.0 a m. I wasn't inclined to cavil even at four miles of dusty roadbash: getting to Big Yengo was a warm and consoling sensation inside.
+It's grimly cold at 5.0 a m. on an August morning, and in the hollows along the road to Windsor the headlights bounced back off pockets of mist; it was very soupy in the Hawkesbury Valley, and the three miles from Windsor to Wilberforce were made miserable by the dazzle from headlights of a following car, but once I was rising on to the ridges between Wilberforce and Central Colo, the air cleared and there was promise of a lovely late winter's day.
+The Colo was cold-black and smoky in the pearly morning light and there was heavy frost: my gloved hands were numb on the wheel up through Colo Heights, and then the sun came up and made the day brilliant. At seventy five miles from home I ran on to the gravel road, and at a hundred and three I crossed the Macdonald and stopped on the grassy patch at the roadside. A brief halt to drain the radiator and drink tea from a thermos flask, and at eight o'clock I wet my feet in the first numbing crossing of the river.
+The Macdonald at this point flows between grassy shores, with undulating slopes rising to timbered hills: the wattles were vivid against the wintry blue sky. Only two or three inches of water, rippling a sinuous course over the sandy bed, and seldom occupying more than half the width of the watercourse. For about an hour it was easy going: crossings were frequent but the open grassed banks a delight. My socks and sandshoes filled up with coarse river sand till there was no more space, and because the water was so cold I plodded along on feet that had real sensation.
+Almost three miles down from the road, the river changes. I still can't be sure whether it changes rapidly or by degrees: I know that I suddenly realised that I was more often on the sand of the river bed (and frequently splashing down the shallow stream) than on dry banks. A little further on, with the shores becoming less hospitable, rock strewn and grown with patches of dense shrubbery, I gave away all pretence of trying to follow the banks, and simply splashed down the river. It was very shallow,  and only rarely did one sink above the ankle in sand, but it was bitterly cold, and my feet and legs remained a fragile purple tint all morning.
+At. 10 a m., at the junction of Howes Valley Creek I decided I was a fool to keep my shoes and socks on, so wrung them out and put them on my pack, and went on barefoot it was much better, and I continued to make 1 miles an hour down the middle of Macdonald River, passing Pipeclay Creek, Yokey Creek, and, finally coming at midday to Yokey Swamp Creek, All the way from Howes Valley Creek the Macdonald passes
+through a shallow but quite rough valley with good enough river-bed walking, but rough, slow banks if you want to go dry-shod.
+I lunched opposite the outflow of Yokey Swamp, left some non-essential gear wrapped in a groundsheet, put on footwear again, and at 1.30 started up the ridge to the east. A few rocky ledges and some thick vegetation slowed me down at first, but within 15 minutes the ridge was clear ahead, and in just over half an hour I breasted a rise where the spur flattened out: there she was - off to my left and ahead -
+Big Yengo, a thousand feet up, with steep grassy shoulders crotched in a lazy sleep of golden afternoon.
+For twenty minutes or so the ridge was almost flat, then the forest thinned cut, and I was puffing at the steady incline. Whenever I stopped to get my wind (and that was often) I found the horizon widening, and long before I reached the summit trig I was looking to Kurrajong Heights (and was it Mount King George?) in the south and south west, to the other big basalt tops of Tyan Pic, Uraterer, Coricudgy, Monundilla in the west, and away, away to the clear blue towers of Barrington in the north.
+From the top when I arrived at 3.0 p m. I could glimpse the ocean, but found the views of known ground to the west so enthralling I forgot to try to identify any easterly landmark: it must have been there, but I can't even. recall seeing Mount Warramolong, inland from Morisset. No wonder, I thought, no wonder Yengo crowds the skyline when you look at him from, say, over then.
+Just before four o'clock I left the top: rather reluctantly, I left it, wondering if I'd carried up enough gear to camp overnight, and deciding that I couldn't camp without water, and the only promising gully was too far down.
+The short winter day closed down as I camped in an abominable place on sand: that's all you can find, on that part of the Macdonald. Just as well the night was mild. Frosty sand would make a shocking bed, even with the thin sprinkling of dry leaves and bracken I raked up.
+Came the brilliant Sunday morning, and I decided my feet were too sand-papered to do an upstream canter along the Macdonald, so I took to the ridges. Apart from a certain amount of navigational it they were undistinguished dry, barren looking spurs, but they served to bring me to the road, from miles south of the bridge, before 11.0 a m. I wasn't inclined to cavil even at four miles of dusty roadbash: getting to Big Yengo was a warm and consoling sensation inside.
@@ Line 174: / Line 173: @@
 Clarice Morris
-This has nothing to do with the House of Dior or with Helena Rubenstein, in the general sense, But have you ever thoight what a source of inspiration bushvralkers, especially their nocturnal appearance, cc uld provide for leaders in the fashion and beauty worlds?
+This has nothing to do with the House of Dior or with Helena Rubenstein, in the general sense, But have you ever thought what a source of inspiration bushvralkers, especially their nocturnal appearance, could provide for leaders in the fashion and beauty worlds?
-If a fashion-conscious designer caught a glimpse of some irospectives taking to the track for the first time, I'm sure he would dash to his drawing board and with a few strokes here and there suggest some attire not only comfortable, but also functional and attractive. I remenber my own experience as a raw prospective on the trip up Glenb rook Gorge. I arrived for the day in low lace-up kid shoes with kromhyde soles, and a woollen skirt. It poured all afternoon. While I hopped like bandy wallaby from rock to rock, shivering when rain trickled down. my collar, Kath Brown enlightened me on the correct and practical attire fcr bushwalking, plus additional advice on what to wear to bed, By the end of the walk the soles were off DTI- shoes and Iry knees chafed - so I took her advice about, what to wear on the track . but to bed  ah, that s a personal choice: That's where the fun begins.
+If a fashion-conscious designer caught a glimpse of some prospectives taking to the track for the first time, I'm sure he would dash to his drawing board and with a few strokes here and there suggest some attire not only comfortable, but also functional and attractive. I remember my own experience as a raw prospective on the trip up Glenbrook Gorge. I arrived for the day in low lace-up kid shoes with kromhyde soles, and a woollen skirt. It poured all afternoon. While I hopped like bandy wallaby from rock to rock, shivering when rain trickled down my collar, Kath Brown enlightened me on the correct and practical attire for bushwalking, plus additional advice on what to wear to bed. By the end of the walk the soles were off the shoes and my knees chafed - so I took her advice about what to wear on the track. But to bed ah, that s a personal choice: That's where the fun begins.
 Kath's bedtime story was recalled during the recent holiday weekend. I sat watching a very experienced walker prepare for retiring. On went ski-pants, extra jumpers, night-cap and gloves. A -whole chapter could be written on the nocturnal disguise of bushwalk-ers for some people swear by three pairs of sox, others by hot water bottles, while the head-warmer brigade are a crowd on their own. Some snuggle down into hooded sleeping bags and look like Sherpas on the upper slopes of the Himalayas. Some favour balaclavas, others hark back to a bit of fur like cavemen ancestors, while many look as though they have the mumps - not to mention the ski- cap fans who like to look both warm and attractive.
 A couple of years ago on a trip with another club, on which four S.B.W' s were present, I took stockinette pyjamas, as it was a two week trip. The first night I dressed for bed in my unaccustomed finery. The next night. I couldn't ,find the legs anywhere. Not wanting to sound suspicious or negligen t, I didn't say anything to my sleeping companions - but I kept my eyes open, and wondered. On the 12th day of the trip one of the females sleeping nexb to me said: "I believe I must've been wearing your pyjama pants all this time". She did wash then so they were clean to takL., home - but that was the end of pyjamas for me. Now I sleep in slacks.