Thursday 22 October

We plunged down the cliff face into the gorge. Sue's boots fighting for grip and Mal intent on following a path only a suicidal mountain goat on drugs would attempt. We could see the pool at the bottom of the gorge and the long slanted slope of rock which the falls, don't fall down at all, but like us just slide down with gritted teeth.

We slid down the last slippery dip designed by Beelzebub himself, and Sue reached out and grabbed a well-situated stinging nettle, to haul herself to a stop with a shriek of pain.

Now I tell you, any of you who think this travel thing is some sort of picnic, it is torture.

Sue limped forward holding her throbbing hand and we settled ourselves on a rock and looked skywards. The great sloping face of rock glared back at our intrusion.

Well Mal scurried around, snapping manically at each new angle at it unfolded before each new rock he leapt on to. Now back to the comparison with mountain goats!!!! Yes the conclusion is easy to make as you see this Arian born ram at his play.

Climbing, scratching and clawing our way back up the almost vertical cliff our faces a waterfall of sweat; we finally, taking a slightly different route, happened upon the track that mere mortals take to the bottom.

We sat in the shade a fresh breeze attempting to cool our frayed nerve endings.

Mal knocked up a coffee and we broke into the magic fruitcake - ooooh now there is a medicine for sore muscles.

Not to be daunted, after a brief break of several hours, we walked up the track above the falls to encounter Rob with his arms passionately embracing Therese.

Well normally you might expect them to in unison call out, "b***** off". But not this couple. Beneath the wrinkles and stretch marks the hearts of young hippies beat loud and strong still. Their wet hair, the mattress thrown on the grass next to what one, with a vigorous stretch of the imagination, could picture a tattooed blue and white, split screen VW van.

They requested a look at Vicki, which we were happy to indulge. We sat in Vicki as the metaphorical bong was passed around and pipe dreams of future travels whet their verbal appetites.

Grey clouds, hung in the sky, small chill gusts heralded the coming storm, so they bolted back to spread a tarp over their lodgings and we lowered the roof and tootled off up the hill as the rain caressed our still recuperating muscles.

Well Mal dawdled off down the road, snails were passing him, he was not in a hurry and that is no exaggeration. The rain ceased and the road was free of dust and we sailed down the hills and rolled gently to the top of the next hill before repeating the process. We stopped in Tenterfield at the big I and got some directions and then out to the Nat Parks office where it hailed as the lady did some photo copies for us.

We muddled our way through the back roads to Emmaville and then down a dirt road to Wellingrove - we passed the Wellingrove Station gate, we could see the homestead. It looked magnificent - it would have been a treat to ramble through the many levels and rooms.

We headed West on a good dirt road and eventually found the campground at Kingsplains. We had time to walk down to the creek, light a fire, cook some spuds and basically settle in, before the curtain of night fell and left a half peeled moon hanging from a string above our heads.

Before we turned in, a young couple came in and were struggling to light a fire, so we basically transported our fire into their cooking spot and that made it easier for them.

The moon peaked into our window, but we were already fast asleep. It had been a big day.