Scenic and serene
To provide a lifeline to early farmers on the Darling Downs, Brisbane convicts were put to work forging the first road through the Main Range. A new hike allows you to walk that trail and enjoy part of the Scenic Rim for yourself.
Convicts forged a road through Queensland’s Main Range. You can now walk that trail and enjoy part of the Scenic Rim yourself.
The radio blared to life: “A severe weather warning has been issued by the Bureau of Meteorology, as wild winds and rain threaten to batter south-east Queensland. Emergency services encourage people to stay indoors and avoid driving…”
Only the truly dedicated – or mad – would set off on a four-day guided hike after such a forecast.And so I drove west into the tempest, to meet the mad and truly dedicated to brave the Scenic Rim Trail, in the heart of Australia’s Green Cauldron. Twenty-six million years ago, the ground here frequently shook as volcanoes threatened to erupt, but today, all that remains are their remnants, all overgrown with forest.
The ‘rim’ refers to a chain of mountains – which includes the Great Dividing Range, McPherson Range, Border Ranges and Darlington Range – that wrap around the fertile valleys below. Nestled in these protected enclaves are quaint towns, such as Boonah, Aratula and Canungra, and lakes brimming with fish surrounded by six main national parks. Some of these I would visit later, but for now I was focused on walking the trail itself.
ON THAT WET DAY, I arrived on private property designated as nature reserve – it is one of a series of farms bought by Jude and Graham ‘Skroo’ Turner, the owners of the Spicers chain of boutique accommodation.The recently opened 36.5km trail covers ground both in the national park and this nature refuge.
At our starting point, we were deposited from a warm mini-bus into the drenching rain at the trailhead, with raincoats zipped to the neck and hoods pulled well down. The gums held their limbs against the wind, their grey-and-tan bark gleaming in the wet conditions.
We slipped and slid along the remains of the first highway carved through the treacherous and wild Spicers Gap, once linking the original Moreton Bay Penal Settlement with the newly-discovered farming land of the Darling Downs. Back in the 1860s it was backbreaking work for the convicts, led by superintendent of convicts Peter Spicer. The task would take them almost a decade to complete.
Our sophisticated Gore-Tex and merino layers kept us far more comfortable than those sorry souls had been, as they had dug away in their cotton coveralls, with “Felon” stencilled accusingly across their chests.
We rock-hopped over the swelling Millar Vale Creek – some more graceful than others – and soon, after a tight swerve onto Oakey Creek, found ourselves sheltered from the downpour in the company of microbats. Our guide, Chris Loxley, followed the guano to detect the tiny, winged, mouse-like creatures, all huddled together in a warm, protective roiling ball of fur.
“Because of the size of their bodies, they have to rely on each other for warmth,” Chris whispered, shining a torch on the snoozing bundle. “They’re always moving, from the centre out, to regulate their body temperature.”
Reluctantly, we left the cosy bat haven and pulled our hoods down once more against the rain. Ahead was the Spicers Canopy camp, with its promise of hot showers, a crackling fire and a warm meal.
WIND CRASHED LIKE waves in the leaves above us. At the 1175m summit of Mt Mitchell (Cooyinnirra), it took on a mad roar, making talking impossible. Cold rain lashed our faces as, enveloped in a sea of cloud, we swayed in the gusts. Visibility was no more than 1m ahead, but Chris good-naturedly pointed out the landmarks for us to imagine: the Brisbane skyline, Lake Moogerah and Mt Greville (or Meebalboogan) to the east and Mt Cordeaux (Niamboyoo) and the Great Dividing Range stretching north.We just had to trust him that they were out there, somewhere.
The hike up was on a gradual incline, as we moved away from the groans of trucks slogging their way up Cunninghams Gap and were swallowed by the forest. This was Gondwana, and stepping into its lush folds is almost to travel back to the time of dinosaurs. The species here are prehistoric and the individual trees ancient, including towering hoop pines thousands of years old and red cedars that survived the timber-getters’ insatiable axes.
We noted the bushfire survival technique of the grass trees as we neared the summit – they form a perfectly hollow cylinder of leaves that have slowly compacted to form insulation against hungry flames.
The night sky was ink black and a furious wind whipped branches above me as I climbed into my car, hours before dawn. Rain hammered the windscreen as I turned the key.
On a clear day, we would have been able to see as far as the Gold Coast, 100km to the east, as we climbed. That day, however, the constant squalls meant we were reduced to examining the flora and fauna right beside us. Chris showed us the near-invisible burrows of trapdoor spiders, gently lifting their carefully and expertly constructed flaps with the tip of a knife. No-one was home that we could see, but the engineering was admirable.
Next were the basket spiders, their webs hovering just above the forest floor and decorated with glittering beads of rain. Their structures were tested by the weight of heavy, wet leaves falling from the canopy above.
Half-chewed nuts of she-oak littered our path; glossy black cockatoos are fussy eaters and only choose seeds from two species of the one tree family. To add further difficulty, they build their nests in the hollows of trees, but they must be carefully excavated and aimed in the right direction, to prevent flooding.
The Scenic Rim region is nirvana for birdwatchers. Mick Cubis, Queensland Parks and Wildlife Service southeast regional director, says visitors will hear – and even see – regent and satin bowerbirds, eastern yellow robins, eastern rosellas, log runners, Albert’s lyrebirds and noisy pittas.
We spotted the heart-shaped leaves of the great stinging tree, but it’s a tainted kind of love – the plant is covered with hooked, venomous thorns.“It’s nasty,” said Chris. “It’s said that the effects of being stung by this, unlike nettle, don’t last hours, or days, but weeks or even months.”
At least our day’s lesson in flora and fauna equipped us with the basic knowledge to survive a night or two on the mountain if need be. Chris showed us the brightly coloured seeds of the lilli pilli and the edible wild ginger. “It’s a more docile version of the ginger root you’ll find in the supermarket, but it’d keep you going,” he said.
IN THE WEAK sunlight of a crisp dawn, the grass bowed low under dewy crowns. Our feet left moist tracks as we set off to climb 1222m Spicers Peak, which loomed in shadow above us. We followed Oakey Creek under the watchful gaze of cattle lazily chewing cud, passing trees that reach for the sky with skeletal arms, stripped of their leaves and dying, thanks to growing numbers of bell miners. They aggressively defend their territory against other birds, preventing them from eating the leaf-ravaging grubs that produce the sugar-rich secretions on which birds feed.
A short, sharp push up rough stairs hewn into the rock
brought us, puffing, back into the sunlight – and the wind. As we mounted the narrow razorback, the views rendered us even more breathless.We had it all to ourselves. “No-one even knows that it’s here,” Chris said, as he fired up the Jetboil for morning tea. “It starts on private property and ends on private property.”
Our 10km trek had taken us through the reserve mentioned earlier – the Spicers Peak Nature Refuge is a 2000ha block of land on a 3000ha working cattle property established in 2006. It borders Main Range National Park and protects 10 regional eco-systems as well as 27 at-risk fauna species. A rocky outcrop near the summit provided the perfect vantage point. We looked down upon Cunninghams Gap and across to Mt Mitchell, which had finally decided to show its face.
Pushing on, we came across the tallest grass tree I’ve ever seen, waving frantically in the gusts. It must have been 6m high and more than 200 years old. Just after we entered the thick scrub we heard, as Mick had promised, the distinctive high-pitched, happy whistle of an Albert’s lyrebird. Creeping as best we could through crackling undergrowth in hiking boots, we managed to glimpse the soft spray of white feathers as the male called for his mate.
In the weak sunlight of a crisp dawn, the grass bowed low under dewy crowns.
It is thought there are just 3500 breeding pairs of this species, which are found in only a small region of south-eastern Queensland and north-eastern New South Wales. We were lucky to see this timid male, before he stalked off into the undergrowth.
Soon we emerged from the thick forest and found ourselves on another narrow razorback for the final climb to the plateau. Being the only ones around we were able to enjoy the uninterrupted 360 º views in peace. Our destination was Spicers Peak Lodge, which, at 1110m above sea level, is Australia’s highest non-alpine lodge. After a steep scramble up – our last, we were promised – we filed through a cattle gate and into a different world. A wide field of lush, green grass opened up before us and we wended along the thin twin lines of tyre tracks.
It was on this plateau that in June 1827, six weeks after leaving Sydney, explorer and botanist Allan Cunningham took compass readings of prominent peaks to the east, including Mt Warning. We rambled on, and the lodge slowly came into view. As we approached on weary legs, two aproned staff members appeared to greet us, drinks balanced on silver trays. I couldn’t think of a better way to toast three days of stunning – and challenging – hiking.
The walk complete, I could now focus on exploring some of the other riches of the wider Scenic Rim region.
“IT’LL DO SOMETHING spectacular in seven minutes,” a woman clutching car keys with one hand and a child with the other told me as she hurried past. “Well, kinda spectacular.You gotta wait for the hour too.”
It was 4.38pm and she was talking about Boonah’s town clock, beneath which I stood, peering up into its workings. Boonah is an hour’s drive from Spicers Peak Lodge, and is a just one of the many charming tourist towns in the region, as are Tamborine Mountain, Canungra and Harrisville.
Earlier, I’d met its maker, artist Christopher Trotter, at his workshop-cum-home on the outskirts of the village, a gateway to the Main Range NP I’d just descended from. A dressage arena has been transformed into a waiting room for pre-loved machines ready for a new life. A wingless aeroplane nestled into a hedge, rusty pipes sprouted from the ground and wheel-less tyres leaned against shelves. Christopher hand-picked each piece over 25 years, the cream of the wrecker’s crop .“It’s special stuff,” he said with a smile.
His aim, when he first started using recycled scrap metal, was to “take objects that don’t go together and put them together in a way that looks like they did”.
Christopher’s mob of kangaroos has lived in Brisbane’s George Street since 1999, with bike chains for backbones and hubcaps for hips. Now, he said, he’s moving into a darker place, inspired by Mad Max, Tim Burton and Dr Seuss – fantastic machines that might transport you to a fictitious parallel reality. He moved to the wide-open spaces of Boonah in 2010 and soon discovered the bane of the local’s everyday life – a town clock that didn’t keep time.
Over a drink, he came up with the idea of creating something new – something that would be a talking point, a tourist destination, and would actually chime at the correct time.The Scenic Rim Regional Council agreed and, with an injection of money from the 2011 and 2013 flood funds agreed to build a monument marking the community’s resilience to natural disaster, the project was underway.
The eagle-eyed Christopher began his hunt for the perfect pieces to build his clock – he toured the scrap heaps of local farmers and sourced items from businesses. He collected horseshoes, mower fingers and chaff-cutting blades – a steam engine’s firebox makes up the body and the locking mechanism came from an old printing press at the Fassifern Guardian. Finally, the Blumbergville Clock was ready for assembly, a process that took place for the first time on the main street, in front of a crowd of locals.
A five-chime whistle fashioned from a Model T Ford sings happily on the hour, while a mechanical pobblebonk frog calls out at 15-minute intervals. “It’s been built using key components from the community,” Christopher said. “Kids and friends can look at the clock and say,‘ That used to be on Granddad’s farm.’ It evokes memories and there’s a real sense of ownership.”
The clock was built to last – the hands are aluminium, and won’t rust at the same rate as the steel body. The brass on one of the faces will eventually turn green.
As you drive into Boonah you pass the delicately intertwined metal Clydesdale by British sculptor Andy Scott, leaning proudly forward on muscled legs. Each year, the region celebrates this strong breed with its Scenic Rim Clydesdale Spectacular, paying homage to the horses that helped the first white settlers clear the land and build.The festival has a distinct Scottish flavour – with plenty of plaid swirling in dance to traditional pipes and drums. The rolling hills, peace, and the pockets of forest have inspired many artists to work and live in and around Boonah and the Scenic Rim.
“In Brisbane, the leaves created dappled light, which made it hard to picture the piece. In Boonah, I have space and it creates the perfect backdrop,” said Christopher. “Being here gives you a chance to stand back and look at things.” Something I’d learned myself while walking the trail.
The walk complete, I could now focus on exploring some of the other riches of the wider Scenic Rim region.