The Blue Mountains

The books foretold of a national park filled with waterfalls, lush semi-tropical rainforests, birds, and immense cliffs falling to a valley filled with tall gum trees and mist. Upon our arrival, with nary a ray of sunshine to guide our path, we encountered only the mist. A mist so soupy and dense one could have just as easily been walking along Broadway Avenue in New York City and been none-the-wiser. The overlooks presented a sea of gray stretching into infinity. Giant rock formations hugging the sheer sandstone drops lay no more than two hundred feet beyond our noses yet hid like ghosts in a blanket of nothingness. We hiked along a rain soaked, swampy trail with a fellow traveler, looking at floating gravy while spirals of dancing raindrops navigated their watery forms into our eyeballs. A spaceship the size of Montana could have taken off twenty yards behind us and we would have been completely oblivious.

A tad bit disconcerting after a two hour train ride.

Thankfully our plans allowed for nearly three days at the Blue Mountains, a consolation dearly welcomed. After a night of profuse wine consumption and a not-so-honest game of monopoly with a trio of Brits, we rose from a bleary-eyed slumber in the mid-morning anxious to see that which we missed the day prior. We were going to see these damn rocks, so help us Crocodile Dundee. The day presented less mist, but still concealed the ball of fire that would have exemplified the splendor. Nonetheless, we set out to the Park once again.

The Three Sisters finally revealed themselves. Peering from Echo Point, the sandstone ladies form remnants of a once solid rock peninsula jutting out into a leafy ocean of thick vegetation. Narrow sets of steep stairs drop inquisitive gawkers into the valley below, where giant gum trees, eucalyptus and such, grow from the moist, black soil.

The hundreds of feet that drop from the upper portions of the ridge to the valley below force many rivers into majestic waterfalls. The most impressive, Wentworth Falls, splays a wide swath of water over a rounded rock-outcropping, where the water falls to a ledge, collects in Eden-like pools, and falls again into the rainforest. The waterfall can be viewed from many perspectives, including a steep, narrow staircase that winds up a rock face along the western side of the falls. The entire area around Wentworth Falls is incessantly scenic.

The third day, on which Wentworth Falls and surrounding parts were thoroughly explored, the sun finally appeared. Unfortunately, with mostly clear skies came a ferocious wind. The thundering intensity of the powerful gusts became clear as we finished the Darwin Trail and confronted the massive cliff faces hosting the falls. As we perched upon the first lookout-point overlooking the dense forest below, amazingly intense winds forced us onto our heals, and even re-directed the waterfall both sideways and upward, directly into the faces of anyone crossing the river above the falls. Gathering a picture became an adventure, as the fluttering arm-strap connecting the camera to my neck floated above my head, and rushing streams of air attempted to launch the picture taking device into orbit.

Nonetheless, the path skirting the rim of the cliff-edge provided incredible perspectives of the valley below. The wind, however fierce, could not deter the splendor of the Blue Mountains.

The Zombies of Sydney

It only seems logical that after 25 hours of continual travel through fourteen timezones, one might consider a short rest to settle the mind and regenerate the body. But, excitement tends to disrupt rational thought.

So, after an expensive German beer at an expensive German restaurant, and after checking into our expensive hostel, we set forth into the city – bleary-eyed and powered almost entirely by airplane food.

The Opera House -

Spirals of shells, piggybacked, with their curved, triangular, vaulted openings confronting the bay. Two white camels sleeping. Sails, stationary, but overwhelming. The Sydney Opera House is the culmination of 16 years of continual labor and one-hundred-million dollars. A construction schedule grossly underestimated and a budget ninety-million over original projections. Yet, unarguably a magnificent structure. So quintessentially unique that even after seeing the opera house consistently in media for eons, the impact of viewing the building in person is not lessened a bit.

Nearly every perspective provides a fascinating curve, or an intriguing shape. From a southern vantage point much is concealed, yet extravagant curves spring from the ground to form the roof lines. From the east and west, more angles begin to converge, and the overlapping “shells” begin to reveal themselves. The northern view adds beautiful pockets of contrasting darkness to the intensely bright, white complex. The opera house lends itself to artistically oriented photographs like few other architectural entities I've encountered.

The Gardens -

Still in a catatonic state, somehow mobile and cognizant, we walked in somewhat bushy-tailed fashion into The Royal Botanic Gardens. A constant stream of runners, apparently the national past-time in Australia, streamed by as we pondered our trajectory on a shaded park bench. Wondering further into the lush gardens, we came about a grassy field covered in birds. Most intriguing were the wild, white cockatoos feeding on something appetizing in the grass. The untamed parrots amassed in great numbers, and had little problem perching upon on-lookers. A pleasant surprise to find such magnificent birds in abundance on our first day.

The Old Fitzroy -

Wondering further, we breached the park and meandered into a more earthy, more residential district in Sydney. Gleaming skyscrapers were replaced with partially dilapidated town-homes – a well-suited business-class with blue-collar workers. A nice change from the polished downtown area. Coincidentally, and quite serendipitously we happened upon a rugged joint, seemingly populated with mostly locals. Having somehow pushed ourselves this far, operating on mostly inexplicable reserves of energy buried deeply in disparate intrigue and insanity, we were relieved to find a watering-hole. By some mixture of intergalactic good-fortune, the bar and restaurant poured some excellent Australian micro-brews, and cooked-up a fine selection of tasty noodle bowls.

The Walk Home -

Exhaustion doesn't begin to explain the profound lethargy we felt stumbling out of the Old Fitzroy. Empty, completely lifeless bags of meat miles from the hostel, wishing that each new step would lead us to the bumper of a speeding cement truck, so that our misery might come to an end. As mindless zombies, we limped along city blocks with towering skyscrapers watching high above. Two great Australian micro-brews consumed at the Old Fitzroy evaporated the last bit of energy surviving in our veins, leaving only the prospect of a dry, relatively soft bed to encourage each new step. Feeling our way through the concrete jungle, we finally ascended the last staircase to our room at the hostel. Sleep was at hand, and not a minute too soon.

I leave you now with a picture from the Sydney Fish Market.

Cheers!

A Glimpse of Sydney

Here are a couple of shots from the fabled, coastal city of Sydney. A full post will follow shortly. Enjoy!!

Madness!

Unlike my previous long-term traveling experience, this trip spawned slowly, and then reached a pinnacle of unpreparedness shortly before departure. That is, supplies were thrown haphazardly into my red backpack mere hours before New Zealand Air would whisk us away to the Southern Hemisphere. Most of my brain had ceased functioning, and only sporadic memories culled from my last trip served to fulfill the majority of the supply list. Thus far I don't believe I've left anything vital behind, but only time will tell.

Other than a severely compressed preparation period, the first real act of drama occurred even before we boarded the airplane. Apparently a semi collided with a person on the highway between Colorado Springs and Denver, leaving traffic lingering in stasis for hours upon end. Having utilized all of my contingency time buying books and filing an amended tax return, a swift venture to the Denver airport was vital. Additionally, a short detour was required to wrangle my wayward traveling companion, a Mr. Travis “Marigold” Johnson. Time was pouring from the hourglass as if it had been shattered upon a concrete floor. Days of accumulated stress were culminating. My parents, still somehow surprised that I had planned things so horribly, even after years of habitual tardiness and procrastination, began to suffer the woes of a contagious anxiety spreading rapidly through the car. Still forty miles from the airport, and we were without Travis and at a complete standstill.

Perhaps this was it. My complete detachment from the realities of time would finally result in a firm kick in the groin, metaphorically speaking. I would miss the flight to Los Angeles, and severely disrupt the chain-of-events that would lead me to Australia. This would conceivably, and quite probably, lead to a partial, or full-blown nervous breakdown, coupled with a complete mental collapse, permanent deadening of certain parts of the brain, resentment from close relations and friends, and a travel companion left to his own devices to fend of killer wallabies in the Outback. As all of these pleasant sentiments drifted briskly through my pulsating cranium, and the impending doom wrapped its devilish fingers around my frantically jittering heart, the mass of stagnant cars began to fragment.

From what I can surmise, my hopes that the miniature black-holes produced by the new particle accelerator in Europe swallowing the wreckage along the highway were fulfilled, and traffic began to progress with greater fluidity. My certain encounters with the worlds deadliest spiders and Crocodile Dundee were again becoming a reality. The anxiety lessened slightly, Travis was delivered at a mutually agreed-upon midway-point by a kind and charitable Mr. Keith “Why the F*ck is Mazzola always late” Knoll, and arrival at the nest of the metal birds was, dare I say, right on time.

As I compose this post from a train heading to the Blue Mountains (which will be part of a later post), I wonder how much permanent brain damage actually occurred during the transitory madness between Woodland Park and Denver. Suffice-it-to-say, a pint of Cold Hop at the airport numbed the ailing mental faculties, and the first step onto the airplane offered some sense of assured arrival.

Stay tuned as the Mazzola and Johnson show broadcasts in miraculous electronic print from the airy, coastal haven of Sydney.

Post Note -
A special thanks to Mr. Knoll for depositing Mr. Johnson at the specified location, and to my parents for sharing in the frenetic ride to the airport!