For more than a decade I have heard tales about their supposed existence – two giant noble fir (Abies procera) trees, which like a pair of lone sentinels guard a secret valley in the Brindabellas.
They are the remnants of one of ACT’s most remote arboretums, the Stockyard Creek Arboretum, established in 1940 to trial exotic species. In the 1990s when the arboretum was felled by park management, worried wildings would infiltrate the surrounding national park. Several foresters fought to keep the two grandest firs as they were ''shy seeders'' and unlikely to spread into the surrounding native vegetation.
The pair were spared the chainsaw, but then faced an equally destructive force when the 2003 bushfires that razed much of our high country bore down on them. Miraculously, while the surrounding bush was decimated in the inferno, the two lone firs escaped with just a few burn marks. While it is likely that their survival was partly due to the fire break created by the earlier felling of the arboretum, along with a good dose of good fortune, it has been suggested by some that it was destiny that they escaped the fury of the flames.
In fact, their survival against the odds, coupled with their remote location has created a certain magical aura around ''the sentinels'' – the sort spoken about in hushed tones by old time storytellers around high country campfires. The odd bushwalking group makes its way through the alpine flowers fields and bogs in summer to catch a glimpse of them, but not many (any?) are foolhardy enough to make the gruelling trip in winter. Following the best snow falls for years in the Brindies, earlier this week I made the decision to attempt to trek to the fabled trees. Surely seeing them in a winter wonderland would only add to their magic?
Due to the difficulty in accessing the far-flung site, I’ve enlisted the support of ACT Parks and Conservation ranger, Brandon Galpin, whose patch includes the domain of the two firs. I meet Galpin at Bulls Head, the old forestry settlement and now remote picnic ground near the start of the Mt Franklin Rd – a narrow, winding track which precariously follows the rugged spine of the Brindabellas from ironically-named Piccadilly Circus (the not so busy intersection with Brindabella Rd) to a locked gate near Mt Ginini.
Part of the deal of guiding me to the sentinels is that I first have to accompany Galpin on his rounds maintaining visitor facilities and join his snow patrol, where he determines, depending on the road conditions, which parts of the Mt Franklin Rd are open to the public. As the closest access to the highest peaks, whenever we wake in town to snow-capped Brindabellas people dash up here after a bush snow experience.
“What some people don’t understand is that you might not see snow at the gate that’s closed, but five kilometres beyond it may be impassable,” explains Galpin.
Galpin’s words are prophetic for as we lock the ''Franklin gate'' behind us, there’s no sign of snow, however within minutes Galpin has pulled up in a deep drift and he’s fitting chains on his vehicle. The snow is soon consistently up to half-a-metre deep and although there are tall orange markers to help you decipher where the road stops (and the near vertical drop starts), there’s very little margin for error.
As for passing another car coming the other way, forget it. After a morning on snow patrol, I have a newfound respect for the thought that goes behind the road closures. Galpin and the Parks and Conservation staff aren’t the no-fun police after all, rather they are just trying to find a happy balance between safety and access.
Despite the chains we don’t make it as far as the Ginini gate (closed all year but for emergencies) that leads into the Bimberi wilderness and beyond. “We’ll have to walk from here,” advises Galpin as the snow becomes too deep to safely plough through any further.
In summer, the six kilometre return off-track trek to the sentinels takes about two hours, but it’s soon clear our journey is going to take a lot longer. Every single step is a crunch through a thin crust of ice and then into half a metre of snow and then a laborious lifting out of the leg. It’s not a natural walking action and within an hour it feels like there’s a couple of bricks in the bottom of both my boots.
Our stunning surroundings more than make up for the hard yakka – to be the first people in this white never-never after a month of blizzards is special. Really special. Surprisingly, even though we are constantly dropping altitude, the snow doesn’t thin out. In retrospect, we should have brought snow shoes, but we didn’t anticipate the snow to be so consistently deep.
Apart from our own huffing and puffing, it’s quiet; eerily so. All the birds seem to have vanished, no doubt sensibly flown to warmer climes, either that or they are frozen stiff in their roosts. However, the lack of noise doesn’t mean this great white expanse is devoid of wildlife - the snow is criss-crossed with animal tracks. Some, like those of ring-tailed possums and wombats, are easily identifiable while some others leave us scratching our heads.
Galpin has to stop me on more than one occasion from following the tracks, pointing out that “we can’t afford to get side-tracked.” And he’s right. The weather can turn at any moment up here, so you don’t want to go off on tangents.
Uncannily the animal tracks seem to lead in every direction, but the one in which we are headed. It’s as if the animals have had a pow-wow and decided to purposefully entice us away from the sentinels. Perhaps it’s a test to ensure that only the worthy get to see the fabled trees in their winter glory?
In fact, it’s not long before Mother Nature throws another challenge our way, this time peppering us with frozen pellets of rain. The change in weather is bad timing for we are just about to cross an exposed alpine bog. “Looks like your akubra is going to take another beating,” muses Galpin.
Every step across the bog is a gamble – we either step through the snow into a submerged icy pool of water, or into an even bigger icy pool of water. Not surprisingly, we clamber out of the bog a lot wetter (and colder) than when we entered it.
Mother Nature must have finally given us the tick of approval, for as we reach the top of the next ridge, Galpin hollers, “look down there,” a sense of relief coupled with triumph in his voice. I peer over the ridge-top where rising proudly high above the surrounding gums are two giant noble firs standing guard over the northern part of the Bimberi Wilderness. We’ve made it.
We stand and admire the vista below. The valley is surrounded on three sides by majestic mountains and at the bottom a little stream trickles by. As if on cue the frozen rain turns into snow, those big fluffy flakes. The cover of a fairy-tale book couldn’t be more enchanting.
We scamper down the hill and seek shelter under the canopy of the larger of the two trees where I realise my boots aren’t as water-proof as I’d hoped – they are full of ice and I’m starting to lose the feeling in my toes. We quickly wolf down lunch and decide the best plan is to get back as soon as possible.
The trek back to the car is uphill almost the entire way, and as our legs tire our strides get shorter. And shorter. At each increasingly regular drinks break, I try to wiggle my toes. After a while I can’t actually tell if they are moving or not.
As we wade back through the snow-laden bog, my thoughts turn to an adventure your akubra-clad columnist made to the frozen Yukon boondocks more than a decade ago.
On a shelf behind the bar of Dawson City’s Downtown Hotel is a jar of blackened human toes, donated by locals who have lost them to frost-bite. Tourists are dared to indulge in a ''sourtoe cocktail'', which is basically a drink of your choice with a toe (real) dropped in the bottom of the glass. If you scull your drink and let your lips touch the toe, you get a round of applause from the locals and a certificate. After a night in which I earned around five certificates, I made a rash pledge if I ever lost a toe to frostbite that I’d courier it over to them. As I try to wriggle my toes again, I begin to wonder if FedEx will be knocking on my door tomorrow morning.
I mention this to Galpin and to take our minds off the disturbing drink, we resort to marvelling at the early pioneers in this area who established the arboretum and must have endured far worse conditions. The distraction works and five hours after setting off on foot, Galpin’s snow-bound vehicle is a welcome site.
Galpin fires up the heater and I tenderly pull off my boots and tentatively peel back my socks. “Phew, they’re all there,” I muse as I count aloud from one to 10 just to make doubly-sure.
National parks aren’t only biodiversity banks but they are also for people to explore and enjoy. They are wild places where we can challenge ourselves, immerse ourselves in nature and let our imaginations roam wild. A mid-winter journey to Namadgi’s fabled sentinels does all that and more. Just don’t forget to pack a spare pair of socks.
Venturing off-track in Namadgi National Park, especially in winter, should only be attempted by experienced walkers prepared for extreme conditions and carrying emergency communication equipment. For winter road closure in the ACT information, call Canberra Connect 13 22 81
Contact Tim: Email: timtheyowieman@bigpond.com or Twitter: @TimYowie or write to me c/o The Canberra Times, 9 Pirie St, Fyshwick. A selection of past columns is available at: canberratimes.com.au/travel/blog/yowie-man
Where in Canberra?
Clue: A bit of old Canberra near our newest town centre
Degree of difficulty: Very hard
Last week: Congratulations to Julia Ermert of Evatt who correctly identified last week’s photo (inset) as the dragons (griffins) which adorn the ANU School of Art courtyard outside Chats cafe, near Theatre 3. “We often admire him when we go out there in the intervals of Repertory productions, if we’re at a matinee,” reports Julia. Last week’s cryptic clue ‘not a low place of learning’ referred to the fact that the site was home to Canberra’s first purpose-built high school (1938), which was extended to form the ANU School of Art in 1980-81.
How to enter: Email your guess along with your name and address to timtheyowieman@bigpond.com. The first email sent after 10am, August 2, with the correct answer wins a double pass to Dendy cinemas.
