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| Cradle Mountain Beauty by John Lendis, one of many superb murals at Sheffield |
I’d planned to stay in Sheffield, famous for its murals, that
night, but after getting thoroughly lost in the maze of small roads that criss
–cross inland from the coast, I found myself in Forth instead. These roads, though sealed, pre –date modern
earth moving times and go around each hill and each farmer’s field. It must have
been onion season now as I passed through acre upon acre of what looked like
seas of golden pearls.
Camping was permitted in the recreation ground in Forth but
it seemed as if several hundred people had already thought of that. It was
apparently the weekend of Forth’s Annual Blues Festival and I only just managed
to squeeze my van in between another car and a tent. People were already gathered around barbecues
and firepits, drinking wine and playing loud music. The people on my right
kindly invited me to join them and it looked like it was going to be a lively
night. Unfortunately, Matthew, the man who owned the tent, had other ideas. When I arrived, he was busy painting rust
inhibitor on his car and, handing me the tin and the brush, insisted I do the same on mine. He had also noticed that my tail lights
weren’t working properly and spent ages helping me to fix those too. After that and my six hour walk, I was quite
happy to turn in. I have been having a
really good run with Matthews lately, so thanks all you Matthews out there, but
I wouldn’t have minded that glass of wine either.
I didn’t stay long in the morning. I was afraid that at any
moment the festival organisers would be coming around to collect the $70
admission fee, so with the car still sounding really clunky, I started heading
home. There was only one more waterfall on the way which I thought I might
just be able to sneak in. After a great
morning shower in Sheffield, I spent four hours looking for the track markers near the turn -off to Lower Beulah as
instructed – even knocking on farmer’s doors, but without success. They had not heard of
these falls either.
In a little clearing on top of a hill, I rechecked the
directions on the computer. It turned out that there was a second turn – off to
Lower Beulah further east. From there it
was supposed to be about 100 metres north, though there was nowhere to go but
east or west. This is where stubbornness
pays off. I drove up the road and down the road – all double lines and tight
bends, looking for the particular pine tree that had a pink ribbon on it. There were lots of pine trees here and a whole
plantation of them on the north side of the road. On the third pass, I finally
spotted a bit of pink, high up on the left, though I would never have seen it
coming the other way. Following the trail, I came upon a huge
gorge just a few metres from the road and from there more ribbons led down the side until I
eventually arrived at a lookout beyond which I could go no further.
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| There is a huge cleft in the rocks here, just a few metres from the road |
You could see the falls from here. The Dasher Falls as
they are called, are not spectacularly high – perhaps ten metres, but so powerful that
they had not only cut that deep swathe through the landscape, but also carved many little caves at their base. Pretty
maidenhair fern, which I always thought was only a cultivated species, grew
here in abundance, but beyond that, there was nothing for it but to clamber
back up.
I was a bit shocked to see a police car waiting for me at
the top. “Have you been driving up and down here?” the officer asked sternly. I had to admit that I had. “And were you
parked on that hill up there?” That was true too. I must have looked worried.
“Just you is it?” He
asked, looking around and looking the van over much too closely. I nodded. Then he said, “There’s been a break - in down
on the river flats. The thieves were driving a van like yours.”
“I’ve been taking
pictures of waterfalls,” I stammered.
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| The elusive Dasher Falls |
Then he broke into a smile,” Waterfall down there is there?
I didn’t know that and I’ve lived here all my life. It’s alright,“ he said. “ The
owner of the house took photos and you don’t look like any of them.” He declined my offer to show him the falls saying “Nah, not now,
I have to get after them.” Then he took off.
I also drove off -very
sedately, lest my noisy exhaust should cause him to change his mind. In fact, I tiptoed all the way back to
Campbell Town – not even stopping to visit Liffey Falls, though it would only
have been a slight detour. The kindly mechanic there whom I had seen earlier, said
that if I could leave the van with him for a few days, he might even be able to
do something about those gouges on the lefthand side. The last time I asked a panel
beater about the cost of getting those fixed, he'd laughed in my face. "More than your van's worth, " he'd said. It was an offer too good to refuse. It was thus that I left my car in Campbell
Town and quietly caught the bus home, much to the consternation of my
neighbours who naturally assumed the worst.
All was well. I picked up the van yesterday after taking the
bus again and there’s hardly a mark on it to hint at its many trials or the adventures it had had. I on the other hand, have a cold and will be
lying low for the next few days. I did however, get a lead about another set of waterfalls up near
Castra which can be reached via sealed roads. Next time perhaps. I'll keep you posted.
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