The Secret Waterfalls of Barrington Tops National Park, NSW

I know, it looks amazing. But, we’re not telling. 

The creek has no name anyway. And, if we told you, well, it wouldn’t be a secret anymore.

It is beautiful though, one of the prettiest creeks in the Barrington Tops. The waterfalls are only small but they are immensely scenic, surrounded by ferns and Antarctic Beech cool temperate rainforest. Perhaps someone else has walked into this spot, but there is no evidence of previous explorers - no disturbed soil or footprints, no broken branches, no path. It feels like we are the only visitors in a long, long time. 

We camp the night by a small junction - where where two small tributaries meet. One of these is home to our secret waterfalls. From the campsite, it is a short walk upstream to the first small, hidden 3m drop that forms a miniature slot canyon. We keep walking up the creek. Next, there are a couple of nice cascades. Then, the main 15m two-step waterfall. Above this, is the next little gem - the little grotto waterfall that Caz took my favourite black and white photo of. We keep going upstream and there are two more small cascades. Finally a bigger 10m+ waterfall. We have not walked more than 300m from the tent.

If you have visited Barrington Tops National Park, you know there are many fine lookouts with views across the forested ranges and eastwards to the sea or westwards to the farms and ranges beyond. Sometimes the view can be dull with smoke burnt haze. Sometimes it is so cold it is impossible to concentrate on beauty even though the air is clear and immense. But now you have seen these photos you can look closer. From these lookouts you can see the shadow imprint, the deep cut of gullies and rivers running off the mountains. And now, you can stand and look and wonder - which of those folds or creases holds this treasure of waterfalls.

Down at our camp, tucked amongst the hard water ferns and beech trees, it is cold early. The day is overcast and the rainforest is a permanent shadow. There is occasional lyre bird song and I hear a distant currawong calling. The small birds chatter in the undergrowth. There is a flight path overhead, as usual. It roars for thirty seconds before slowly fading northwards. As I settle in to read and write for the afternoon, legs tucked in my down sleeping bag for much-needed warmth, Caz wanders across to photograph the nearby tree ferns. 

This is not just a beautiful spot for its waterfalls. The size and grandeur of the tree ferns here is  extraordinary. Their trunks are bigger than a hug. Some lay prostrate along the ground and then turn suddenly for the sky and open their fronds in a burst of green. Others stand 3m tall and straight. Their dead fronds form a dense and long skirt, perfectly pleated and evenly hemmed. 

And the moss, it is thick, old, untrammelled. It is on trees and rocks. There is a huge variety of leaf types, shapes and textures. It is spongy and soft, delicate and oh so green.  

We stay with the secret waterfalls just one night. The night is thick with darkness. The water speaks so quickly it is all static. In the morning we pack up quickly and return to the car via a rambling route through the forest. We use the bands of dark green on the topographic map, use gullies as markers and take a couple of compass bearings to keep us on the straight and narrow. We pass through some truly beautiful forest - the trees ferns, their flowing brown skirts; the tall, straight, moss-covered beech trees. 

We climb out to an old forest trail and know, quite suddenly, that we are truly on the ‘Tops’. It is cold. The snow gums are skimmed by low cloud. It is scenic forest. At the car it says it is 8 degrees Celsius but there is a significant wind chill. We persevere and have lunch at the picnic table then drive back down off the mountain, stopping to walk out to one of those splendid lookouts and wonder at the secrets the forest hides. I quote here below, an old (little bit daggy) piece of Australian pastoral poetry from Henry Kendall (ironically he went on to become a forestry inspector). 

There is much modern mockery of this kind of rose-tinted, sentimental, romantic, interpretation of nature. But, I wonder, those who mock have simply have not experienced the restorative power of secret places, of hidden waterfalls, of private, peaceful nights in a deeply beautiful forest. Standing on that freezing, wind-chilled lookout I do know that in nature is completely unsentimental. Here, I can easily die of exposure if not prepared, but I can as easily find myself at home and comfortable, happily complicit with its secrets and wonders. 

X 

Rest (extract) 

from Twelve Sonnets

Sometimes we feel too spent from want of rest

We have no thought beyond. I know to-day,

When tired of bitter lips and dully delay

With faithless words, I cast mine eyes upon

The shadows of a distant mountain-crest,

And said, "That hill must hide within its breast

Some secret glen secluded from the sun."

Oh, mother Nature ! would that I could run

Outside to thee; and, like a wearied guest,

Half blind with lamps, and sick of feasting, lay

An aching head on thee...

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