NSW - Grafton - Back to Cherry Tree Creek Gold Mine
From "JD & J Binder"

Details our week's outing back to Cherry Tree Creek Gold Mine, near Grafton NSW

Four photos at: www.nrwc.org.au/story_3.htm

It's common knowledge that two wrongs do not make a right. A lesser known fact is that three rights make a left. But when they are the rights of landowners, nature lovers and National Parks, what's left is a mess. An example is our recent outing into the wilderness when all we wanted was to enjoy nature as it was created. We didn't want to encroach upon the rights of others, but the lay of the land, and other circumstances, forced us to prevail upon the kindness of others. And we found them wanting.

A few months ago, when Jude and I had blundered into a historical site hidden deep within a wilderness area, we found an abandoned gold mine first established in the late 1800's. A recent bush fire had scorched the hills, burning away invasive weed and thick grass that normally hid the remains. Unfortunately, our camera was not with us, so an opportunity to capture the bits of machinery and buildings on film was lost. A fact so disappointing the President of the Clarence River Historical Society that he asked if we'd be making a return trip with a camera. Two months went by, our son Jason arrived on annual holiday with his lady friend Alison, and a return visit was discussed. Ali, a city girl, declared she could handle the hardship of an extended walk carrying her own gear, so a departure date was set.

Come the day, it was a scorching forty degree heat, forcing us to delay our departure in the hope for cooling afternoon breezes, which did not eventuate. The sun was barely three fingers above the hills when finally we hoisted our heavy sacks. Staggering and stumbling, we entered private grazing land immediately upon leaving the caravan park at Jackadgery on a route we'd taken many times in the past. Two hours upon thick grassy river flats was quite enough for young Ali, so we set up camp alongside the river. Next morning, in no great hurry, we enjoyed a cooling swim before setting off. But soon the day's rapidly soaring heat passed the first day's blast, wilting Ali under the weight crushing her soft shoulders. Rest stops began outnumbering the distance travelled, so I decided to leave the stony

shoreline, taking instead a gravel track in the hope of making faster time and lessening the strain on poor Ali. Up and down shallow hills, we plodded on for about another hour when two riders appeared over a rise, a pack of dogs running raggedly alongside them. They halted. I continued marching towards them. One was a tall slender gent in a wide leather bushman's hat. The other was a plump lady whose figure generously filled the brown saddle strapped to her steed.

"What'd ya think yur doing?" The man drawled, his aquiline nose was sharp and flared like that of his horse.

"Doing hard work on a hot day," I replied with a weak smile, not knowing whether his question was poised as friend or foe.

"This here is private property yur on," he went on in the same whiny voice after giving his dogs a crack of whip to keep them from surrounding me.

Jude then strode up, calling out brightly, "Happy New Year." Receiving no reply, she raised her head to the lady and said, "Good day. How you going?"

Open forest surrounded us and there was not a dwelling for several hours ride, yet the woman sneered back, "This is our land and you're here without our permission. How'd you like it if we camped on your front lawn?"

This unleashed a number of thoughts including how silly to compare a suburban house, with its need for security, with wilderness along one of our loveliest rivers. Good manners kept a tight hold on my uncivil tongue. Instead, I politely asked their name and phone number so that next time I could request permission and not have this conflict.

"No need to know that," the man replied, choosing to look off into the forest.

So I asked, "Well, how can I contact you if you won't give me a phone number?"

He answered, "The people running the caravan park know us."

Suddenly I imagined rolling up to the caravan park fully packed, then not able to contact the land owner, and this brought on the belief that he really didn't want to be contacted. I was beginning to not like this man and it irked me that our system would allow one human to monopolise kilometres of beautiful river.

Years earlier on our first visit, I had asked the kind folk at the caravan park about access rights and was advised that passage along the riverbank was allowed. But not wanting to create conflict in the neighbourhood, I kept this tid bit to myself, commenting instead that we were destined for the confluence of the two rivers another four kilometres upstream. The fella, a decade my junior, looked sharply down from his saddle then announced that he owned all the land to that spot. Counting to ten, I gazed about absorbing the peacefulness of the forest, then replied that I knew the confluence and several kilometres this side was a declared National Parks wilderness area. His glaring look didn't stop me from adding that we'd go back to the river's edge and make our way along it. Breaking eye contact, he then proclaimed ownership of all land to the centre of the river.

"That may be," I replied, "but we're not disturbing your beasts nor causing you any harm, so I'm carrying on through to the confluence." Shifting in the saddle, his eyes darted this way then that as he demanded we travel on the other side of the river. Having studied that bank on several occasions, I knew it was thick with thorny weed and damn near impossible to traverse. Saying that, I added that I'd not endanger my party by attempting to cross such a wide river.

It became obvious that nothing would be achieved by further discussion, so I bade them good day and turned back for a ridge heading down towards the river. It was painful fighting through thorny lantana until at last we stumbled out onto the rocky foreshore. Needless to say our conversation throughout centred on the belligerent attitude of the landowners with Jason refusing to believe his birth country would grant land ownership to the

centre of a river. I had my say, noting that in twelve years of walking, I'd never met a landowner who wouldn't grant access. Jude played devil's advocate saying the owners had a right to protect their animals, a point none of us disputed.

We had come on a mission, so continued upstream, making camp at the confluence that evening. Nature rewarded our achievement with a glorious calm night and three quarter moon that reflected brightly down a shimmering white path bisecting the lake created at the junction of the rivers. A night of rock solid sleep ended with birds gaily singing as if a contest had been called to find the most beautiful combination of notes. During a lazy breakfast around a small campfire, time meandered like the eddies in the stream while flames transported our thoughts to distant places, its wisps of smoke drawing our vision up into tall trees. What remained of that first day was devoted to having plain and simple fun. Upstream on the Mann were giant rocks where the normally ankle deep water collected in deep pools, which we searched with goggles in place, looking for pretty stones or a stray gold nugget, but spying only pointy nose turtles, a few catfish, and thousands of yabbies. A little further up, where the boulders damned the river, a chute was formed where the water rushed over smooth polished rock. Here Ali was introduced to the catapult action of river rapids as we took it in turns to jump in.

The following morning began a work day for Jude and I. Rising at dawn, we packed, then set off for Cherry Tree Creek five kilometres up the Mann. The first time we made this journey had been tough going as we'd gotten stuck in vines and rock slides along the river's edge. This time we climbed through the forest on the northern slopes and were rewarded by finding a man made track eroded with the passage of time. At first, it wound through waist high grasses, new growth after the fire which blackened the hills months earlier. In places, the path became indistinct and was lost, while in other spots it was blocked by fallen trees. Nevertheless, our passage was fast, leaving us time to theorise about the hardy folk who had constructed it during the mining era. Clearly they had worked long and hard because a great amount of rock had been moved to create passageways wide enough for their carts. We'd observed the same arduous feat on the old trail just downstream of our camp, prompting me to think that a right of way had been established between the mine site and Jackadgery. Jude said Australia did not recognise right of way as in England, where tracks of the past are available to walkers no matter if they cross private land. I commented that Australian law makers had been short sighted.

Coming out of the hills at Cherry Tree Creek, a swath of bright green greeted us where only black was last seen. As if suspended in time, the rusty boiler still stood silent guard over the rock entrance to the gold mining area. For more than a hundred years it had presided over that forested spot while floods, fires and gales had reshaped the hills, and man had successfully destroyed many more things naturally created.

The fire that had blackened the hills and had burnt away the cover of weed, exposing these relics of the past, had itself become a part of history, for it was now a thin layer of cremated vegetation in the build up of soil. In its place, Earth had created new life. Lush grasses brushed past our waists. Saplings carpeted the slopes with waxy new leaves that reached for blue sky and hot sun. Mature trees, whose bark had been charred, now erupted in the pink flush of new life.

As we had two months earlier, we sauntered up the creek, this time to record on film the pieces of iron that were once a stone crusher driven by steam, a neat red brick chimney, being the last of the main house, as well as other bits; an iron door, anchor bolts, a few horse shoes. Smaller relics had been masked again by the invasive lantana introduced by white settlers.

Following our stroll came a cooling swim, then a return to the companionship of Jason and Ali, instead of camping there overnight.

All up, we enjoyed six days of bliss; fine hot weather, beautiful scenery, no telephones and many good laughs which took us to a level of life rarely visited in today's hectic pace. Featuring often in our conversations was our encounter with the land owners. The others hoped we'd not have another meeting on our way out, but I differed. I'm always willing to discuss my belief that Earth's treasures are for all to enjoy as long as no harm is done.

Camp was broken early so we could set off while the day was still cool. Three hours of fast walking took us back to New Zealand Falls where Jason and I frolicked in the pools, finding rounded polished stones directly under the downpour of the river, while Jude and Ali sat under shade reading novels. Refreshed, we again heaved on bags, then set off across the open paddocks under a horribly hot sun. Like zombies marching single file through hell, we followed a well worn cattle track, sweat pouring off us as if a tap had been left running. A throb at my temples kept beat with my feet and no matter how many times I lifted the sack, the straps continued carving off my arms. The hotter it got, the harder I pushed myself, faster towards the bridge at Jackadgery, till a tiny gasp reached through the loudness of my breath. "Can we slow down?" Jude's plea brought reality back from the surreal world of hard physical labour.

Ahead through heat haze, clumps of casuarinas wavered limply in lines, dark patches of thick grass beneath them signalling thin shade. Heading towards them, my dry throat released the desired signal. "Five minutes!" And we all flopped on the ground in a cluster, our sacks still attached to our backs.

From where we had come thunder cracked and rolled down the river, bouncing back and forth off the ridges. Thick black was observed above our last camp just as wispy puffs chilled the wet shirts that clung to our arms and torsos. Lying back, not one word was uttered.

Watching the blue green needles slightly swaying above my head, I went dreaming of a hunter gatherer who was in tune with Nature and understood the need for wild creatures. In his world, Wall Street didn't exist nor had Alexander Graham Bell, important was family and clan, the creator and this lush river valley. Comparing our worlds, I was wondering where perfection lay. Was it his simple, yet harsh world filled with fear and wonder, or this one, disjointed, too easy, yet too hard for full enjoyment of long life. I chuckled aloud knowing I'd take something from both worlds.

"What's up?" Jason hoarsely whispered, rising on an elbow. Then blurted "Hey, there's somebody down there," pointing through the trees downstream towards the bridge.

In unison, we rolled on our sides to see movement in the haze. A fleck of light was cutting across tall yellow grasses. "It's the owner," Jude said, and Ali groaned.

"What're we going to do?" There was fear in Ali's voice, put there by a canoeist the kids had met during our day's absence. He'd claimed the owner had fired a gun at him some years back. It had sounded more a fabrication at the time, but now it set my mind to alert.

Back and forth, the figure moved, prompting new remarks from my group. "He's fencing." "Probably electrifying it." "More'n likely erecting a bloody big sign. 'Keep Out' in flashing red letters."

A vehicle was spotted which swallowed the figure, and I prayed it would exit our lives so we could end this adventure. But it didn't. Bumping closer, a white four wheel drive ute, loaded with drums of chemicals and spraying equipment pulled up alongside. In the cab sat Mrs. Owner, looking less snippy in her grey sweat stained felt hat.

"Good day," I called from where I lay. She neither smiled nor sneered.

"Hot day," I continued in a good neighbourly tone. "Sounds like an afternoon storm's brewing."

Framed by the cab door, her full face relaxed as if in resignation, then a neutral voice answered that storms had hit Armidale, a town some two hundred kilometres west. "You ever cross the river?" she then asked.

I shook my head. "Too deep. But we're on our way out. Be out of your hair in just a few minutes." I added with a warm smile.

"Don't misunderstand," she began, "but we're trying to make a living off this land. We pay the rates and all expenses, then we get people from the towns and cities wandering about, scaring our cattle. And when they get into trouble, the emergency services come running and cut all our locked gates. We're fed up with you folk."

"Look, I told you before, we respect owner's property, avoid cattle and look after ourselves. I sympathise with your plight, but you've got to face real life. This area is growing by leaps and bounds, and that means more people, more canoeists, more hikers every year. One day your belligerent attitude is going to piss off some half crazy who'll set a match to your stables and corrals. Probably burn down all those trees."

Mrs. Owner slumped back, pushed her brim up a little higher, then shook her head. "You know, National Parks do nothing. They take our land then let the weeds run rampant. When it floods, they wash down all over us and Agriculture makes us get rid of them. That costs money. We work hard to earn an honest living and yet we can't keep trouble off our land."

All of us were filled with compassion for their plight, but I knew no matter how much we sympathised, humans are demanding equal rights, including equalaccess to our Earth's natural treasures.

Agreeing to disagree, I got my group up and we set off down the track. But we'll be back. Our research has since shown that we do have legal rights to transit private land as long as we keep to the river.

Anyone wanting to discuss these issues with the author can contact JD Binder at binder@caldera.com.au.

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