Tag Archives: Kalbarri

Kalbarri’s z-bend

I’d learned my lessons from the day before. Arriving at Kalbarri’s Z-Bend river trail hike, I had water, I had my mobile battery pack, I had even managed not to get lost on the way. But there was something I wasn’t prepared for: rain.

It was 6 am, and I had no time to hang around; I wanted to make the trip back to Perth today. There was no option other than to get on with it.

Although it was a much shorter hike than the Loop the day before, the Z-Bend is also classified as more difficult.

Luckily for me, getting out of the car the rain was barely noticeable — I felt almost like it was a test of if I was really determined to do this, but I hadn’t driven to Kalbarri to do one measly hike.

Because the car park was deserted, I was reasonably confident I wouldn’t see anyone on today’s hike. I knew I needed to be careful, especially if rocks might be slick with rain, even on a short walk I couldn’t afford to injure myself. Boots laced, pack on my back, I set off down the trail.

A few metres onto the trail there was a signpost, did I want to go left to the Lookout, or right to the river trail? Neither said “Z-Bend”, and I didn’t want to accidentally embark on the much-longer Four Ways Trail, or the multi-day river gorge hike, so I shrugged and set off to the lookout.

When the signpost had said “100m” I hadn’t realised that wasn’t where the trail started; it was where it ended with the lookout itself. I could still see the car park from here.

The path is as a “moderately easy walk” which goes to show that the difficulty of these things is often exaggerated. It was more like “very gentle stroll” than anything else. While the views from the lookout are worth taking in, I was more interested in the walk itself.

Back to the fork in the road, there was no other option than to follow the river trail and see what happens next.

As soon as I started the trail, I realised my phone had no signal. I’d presumed that since it had reception throughout the entire Loop walk the day before, it would here, too — but not so.

I comforted myself that because the hike itself shouldn’t take more than a couple of hours, and because it was early in the day it was still cool. In an emergency, even if I needed rescue, I’d (probably) survive. And off I went.

What makes the Z-Bend different, and more challenging than the Loop is the trails can be much steeper, more rugged, and in places, you have to climb down ladders. This would cause problems for someone with limited mobility.

It’s universally true of me that I will often make life more difficult for myself than I need to. A case in point, coming to a narrow gorge, it seemed obvious to me that what I needed to do was inch my way along a narrow ledge. Pressed flat against the steep wall, I’m exhilarated at how difficult this is — it’s more than I expected, though part of me has a nagging doubt that doesn’t this seem out of character for a walk like this?

It’s only when I get to the end that I realise I should have been walking along the solid ground the whole time.

Dead End Streets

The good news is that even if you make life more difficult for yourself there is never any doubt where you are going with this trail. At any point, if you are unsure, a quick look around will show a clear trail marker.

This is useful for times like when you come to a very narrow canyon that looks like it just ends in a sheer rock wall.

There’s no doubt where the trail goes. There is no ambiguity. It goes straight ahead. To get into this very narrow canyon there are large boulders to clamber over, and it’s at times like this you need to be especially careful — a twisted ankle could be the least of your problems if you hit your head on a rock.

I climb carefully down, still doubtful about what’s meant to happen here, but curious if I’m going to need to climb back out the other side. I almost laugh with surprise at the end of the canyon: of course, it isn’t a dead-end at all, instead, the trail turns so sharply that until you’re on top of it, there’s no way to tell it continues.

There’s another sharp turn almost immediately after, with more clambering over rocks and another ladder descent. One of the more surprising things about this river trail hike is how quickly it goes from climbing over rocks and narrow chasms to flat, easy trails.

The other surprising thing is how short it is. Before I knew it, I was climbing over some rocks beside the river. The hike is called the river trail, so surely there must be more to it than this?

I walked further down along the river until I got to a distant marker post, to see what it said. It clearly pointed back the way I had come.

Too often with hikes like this, I always push forwards and onwards to get to the destination. It can feel like I rush right through the parts where I should be paying attention. If I’d known how quick the hike would be, I could have walked more slowly.

Having a camera at times like this can be a good way to remind me to stop, take it in, admire the sheer rock walls and the layers of the sandstone. If you have to pause to take photos and really look at everything you have no choice but to slow down.

The Way Back

Unlike the Loop, the way out of the Z-Bend river trail hike isn’t through — it is simply turn around and go back the way you came.

The marker posts that were so clear for the way down to the river make slightly less sense heading back, their placements are obvious only for going downhill. This doesn’t mean I was worried about getting lost, but there were several occasions when I needed to actually look around for the marker and work out where I was going.

Heading back the way I came means that I got to appreciate the trail a little more, and see it from a different perspective. Rocks I’d climbed down over, I now needed to find ways around to get back up.

While it’s slightly disappointing that the Z-Bend river trail hike is so short, the more challenging aspects of it made it a worthwhile adventure for me. I look forward to walking it again another time, when I know what to expect and have a realistic view of how long it will take.

Hiking Kalbarri’s loop

Consider your options!

The warning was obvious, this was my last chance to turn back. “The trail gets much harder and hotter from here.”

If I didn’t have at least two litres of water, I should retrace my steps to Nature’s Window.

I thought it over. Shrugged. And carried on.

The Loop Walk in Kalbarri is famous enough that it’s one of the sights that you travel there for. Calling it a “walk”, though, might be underselling how challenging it can be — and possibly why it needs so many warning signs.


The Canoe the Gorge excursion I’d booked got cancelled, so I made plans of my own.

Nature’s Window is best seen at sunrise. The only problem was, sunrise was around 5.30 and the national park doesn’t open until 6 am.

I figured I would get there when the park opened, and start hiking at 6 am, since Google Maps told me it was only a 15 min drive from where I was staying.

I was awake, out of bed, dressed, fed and in the car precisely on schedule.

Except when I arrived at “my destination” I found Google Maps had interpreted Kalbarri National Park differently than I had intended and taken me to tourist information instead of to The Loop.

A quick reprogram and The Loop was now a 45 min drive away. It would have been 30 minutes if I had gone the right way at the start.

Extreme Heat Risk

Kalbarri gorges

Pulling into the national park, there were warning signs with stark messages of extreme heat risk. The Loop Walk would be closed from 7 am.

There’s a reason the best times to visit Kalbarri are in the Spring and Winter.

Summer heat can be dangerous in the gorges. It’s not uncommon for days to crack 40 degrees or more in a Western Australia summer, and I hadn’t taken into account that temperatures in the gorges can be ten degrees hotter.

It was still before 7 am. Did the signs mean you had to start The Loop before seven or finish it before seven? How can you finish before seven if the park doesn’t open until six? You’d have to start walking at least two hours before the park opened.

I practically leapt out of my car when I got to The Loop and grabbed my bag. I was already behind schedule, and so long as I started walking before 7, everything would be fine. Probably.

3 – 4 Litres of Water

I’d prepared well enough. I had close to three litres of water, and a separate water bottle I had filled the night before and chilled in the fridge.

Except that the second water bottle got left behind, so I had less water than was ideal to start.

Despite the extreme heat warnings, the forecast for the day was mild. They predicted a high of 30-something degrees, rather than 40-something. I could still be finished by 11 am.

Everything should be fine. I set off down the trail.

Nature’s Window

It was a short walk to Nature’s Window. I missed sunrise, and the view wasn’t as spectacular than I had hoped, and I was a little disappointed.

A few tourists were hanging around, wearing warm hats and windbreaker jackets, and taking pictures.

Either because it wasn’t yet, 7 am and a little cold, or because viral Instagram posts had unfairly raised their expectations, they didn’t seem too enthusiastic about the spot.

With little reason to hang around, I pressed on, and I saw more warning signs. Literal warning signs.

Do not start the walk after 7.30 am in warmer months. Wear long sleeves. Carry three to four litres of water. Walk with a companion.

I was in short sleeves, had less than four litres of water, and had no companion. Was I going to turn back? No way.

Into the Wild

It’s a four-hour hike. I figure I will walk for an hour and reassess conditions — how much water I have, how I’m feeling, that kind of thing. Then I can turn back if necessary.

Before the trip, I sensibly bought a mobile power bank. Since my phone can’t be relied on to hold a charge when I need it, it was a good thing to have “in case of emergency.” I even managed to pack it in my backpack that morning before heading out.

What I didn’t remember to pack was a charging cable.

No matter. Instead, I would just keep my phone on flight mode. It isn’t like I would be browsing social media or streaming music while I was walking, so it would be fine. I also had a camera that wasn’t my phone, so that would also stop the battery running down.

Before I started walking, I sent a message to my partner. It was a brief message to let her know I was heading “into the wild” and that I probably wouldn’t be contactable.

I didn’t know if I would have any mobile signal once I started, but she knew where I was, and the message let her know how long the hike should take, giving a reasonable timeframe of when to begin to worry if I didn’t get back in touch.

My phone safely on flight mode and tucked away, I’d barely started walking before I slipped on some loose scree, broken fragments of rock, and almost twisted an ankle.

I began to question how sensible it was to use the phrase “into the wild.”

I hoped my partner wouldn’t connect it to the book of the same name, where a young man dies in the wilderness, partly because of some ignorant and unfortunate decisions, and partly some lousy luck.

Luckily, I was unhurt. Even if I was hurt, I was still so close to Nature’s Window that someone could reach me quickly enough if I needed help.

It did give me pause. If I wanted a sign not to do this alone, this was it.

Down to the River

Below me, I could see the Murchison River snaking its way through the limestone gorges. I was excited to be here — I’d driven six hours the day before to get to these gorges — and it was so peaceful.

The tourists behind me at Nature’s Window were the only people I’d seen that morning, and if I stopped and listened, I couldn’t hear any signs of humanity.

There was no traffic noise — no shouting or arguments or conversations. There were no planes overhead or distant sounds of construction. No matter how much I strained to hear something, I could have been the only person left on the planet.

For the first three kilometres, the walk was a meandering trail along the rim of the gorge — heading steadily downwards, but like me, not in a great hurry to get anywhere.

The walking was easy, the sun wasn’t hot yet, and the only thing slowing me down was stopping to admire the views.

If You’re Waiting for a Sign, This Is It

At the three-kilometre mark is another sign. It effectively says “abandon ye hope, all who enter here.”

It is effectively the point of no return. This is your last chance. Hikers have died on this trail!

They were probably hikers who didn’t have enough water and were walking alone.

Without taking my water out of my backpack to check levels, I know I probably have less than two to three litres. But I have come this far without any difficulty, I’m not tired, and it’s still not too hot.

There are 5km left to go. It only gets more difficult when you have to climb out of the gorges. What’s the worst that could happen?

If I think about it, I have descended 3km into a gorge. The worst that could happen when hiking alone is quite serious.

If I was to hurt myself at this point, it would take several hours to reach me and more to get me back out.

On the other hand, it wouldn’t be considerably easier or safer to retrace my steps at this point.

By The River

As I walk along the gorge, following the waypoint signs, it looks like they are pointing along the rocks. Do I now walk along the rocks, or closer to the water? The latter would make sense.

There’s a joke. Growing up, we all thought quicksand was going to be a much bigger problem than it is as adults.

I’m reminded of this in the moment and don’t know how deep the mud will go. I step back quickly, grateful that I’m not stuck, and that my boots were laced tightly, and escape with only mud up my legs.

On reflection, the signs did mean to walk on the rocks. I’ve seen pictures of wetter times of the year when the river is higher, and it’s evident that you walk along the narrow rocky ledge — there’s less quicksand risk when there’s no sand.

I don’t know for sure how long it took for the Murchison River to carve out the gorges of The Loop. The walls of the canyon are stunning to look at in the morning sun, all striped and banded. They are also more than a little humbling.

Considering they are famous for containing fossils, my best guess is that the gorge must be something like 400 million years old.

Signs of Life

A short distance ahead, I see movement. I have been walking for hours, and it has been a long time since I last saw anyone, heard anyone, or even saw any signs of people.

I see it again. Maybe two people.

I walk on, and I see it’s a white animal, not a person. But… is that a dog? Did someone bring their dog in here?! There are two animals, I think, maybe they’re sheep, which also seems odd for where we are.

As I get closer I see the animals three goats, two white and one black. Surprising, but not as surprising as sheep. Or dogs.

A short while later, I see a couple of people. I can’t tell if I saw them as well as the goats earlier, it seems like a coincidence if not. The thing is, I don’t know where they have come from.

I can’t remember if there was more than one other vehicle in the car park when I arrived. There had to have been at least one, belonging to the tourists at Nature’s Window, but was there another?

How much earlier than me would this couple have had to set off to not see any sign of them before now? Unless they walked the reverse way, and are now walking back up, rather hiking than the whole loop. It doesn’t take long to catch them up.

They’re a middle-aged Aussie couple, and we talk about how lovely and fresh it is — it’s ideal hiking weather. The conversation lags, and I don’t know the etiquette of this.

Since I’m walking alone, should I now walk at their pace and stay with them? If only for safety. Or out of politeness. But they also might not want company. Instead, I walk on.

I figure now that at least if I fall and hurt myself, they’re behind me and will catch up — and be able to get help.

The Way Out

Before I’m out of the gorge, the sun comes out, and it’s starting to get hot. I can see, way at the top, Nature’s Window and there are tiny figures of people up there. It’s a steep climb in soft sand and loose rock, 2km uphill.

I eventually get to the top, practically staggering. There are people everywhere around Nature’s Window with selfie sticks and lounging seductively across rocky ledges for Instagram stories.

I stop and admire the view, take some pictures to see how it’s changed since I started, and then I just keep going.

In front of a family, I slip on some rocks and bang my knee. It’s not bad, but I consider to myself that it’s lucky I didn’t do that at the start of the walk, or I might have just turned around rather than risk it getting worse

A short while later, I meet the family again at a photo spot. They say something about a photo, and I think they want me to take their picture. “Are you ok?” they ask me. “Yes, I’m fine.” I don’t know why they are mentioning it again.

But it turns out they don’t want a photo, they were going to look at one together, and they thought I was approaching them for help.

I make it the rest of the way, briefly daunted by a staircase that now seems more difficult than anything else that day.

Around the car park for The Loop were shelters for picnics. Before heading home, I sat quietly in the shade of one, surrounded by a veritable cloud of flies. Tired, sweaty, dirty, peaceful and happy.

The Road to Kalbarri

With a squeal of tyres and a cloud of dust, I pull over to the side of the road. There’s a big sign saying “Kalbarri” and I’ve driven six hours to get here.


I mentioned Indian Ocean Drive in my previous post about Jurien Bay. It recently occurred to me that I’ve taken several road trips on it but not seen the end.

I’ve been to the white dunes of Lancelin, the desert pinnacles of Cervantes, the abandoned water park of Two Rocks, the koalas of Yanchep, and now the sea lions of Jurien Bay. But its end, in Geraldton, I didn’t know.

With some time on my hands before starting a new job, I decided a road trip was in order. I looked up where I could fly to in Australia with the meagre frequent flyer points I have, and the answer was not far. So I looked where I could drive to, instead.

I spent my first few months in Australia in the southern part of the south-west. Mainly Albany, with trips to Esperance, Walpole, and Denmark, so I felt I’d done the south coast. I can’t count the number of road trips to Albany I’ve been on, and even Margaret River doesn’t call to me in quite the way it does others in Perth.

Going North

This time, I decided I’d take the trip farther north to Kalbarri.

I booked a week in Kalbarri about 18 months ago, but was made redundant from my job and had to work the notice period instead of taking that break. It felt like we had unfinished business.

Destination decided, I set about looking for accommodation. I wanted it simple. I wasn’t planning to camp but tried to keep it basic. There were hostels, pubs with rooms, motor hotels, but I got a deal on a place through Airbnb for cheaper than anything else I saw.

All that remained was to squeeze some things into a backpack — particularly hiking gear, since I wanted to see the gorges — throw it in the back of the car, and go. Kalbarri is a six-hour drive from Perth, and that’s if you don’t stop.

Luckily, morning traffic in Perth goes north to south, so I was able to start driving and barely stop. Despite owning my car for several years, I have only recently worked out how to use the cruise control — and I wouldn’t have wanted to make the drive without it.

Dongara

My first real stop of the day was in Dongara, about three-and-a-half hours from home.

The first half of the journey felt surreal. I didn’t stop at the Pinnacles in Cervantes, why I’m usually on that road, and having so recently visited Jurien Bay, it felt strange passing through the town again.

It wasn’t Dongara itself where I stopped, more just a parking place on the side of the road. All that was there was a picnic table under a metal roof, not even a toilet. From the smell of the place, motorists were using it as both.

There was a strange contrast between the dusty road with the smelly shelter, and the blue ocean with its crashing waves if you turned your back to the highway.

Just the same, I didn’t hang around for long.

I planned to stop in Geraldton for lunch, and formally recognise it as the end of Indian Ocean Drive. The universe had other plans. I joined a line of cars in a roadside traffic stop and understood right away; this was more than just RBT and was slightly alarmed when the officer said they were looking for drugs and money.

It felt like one of those movie moments where an escaped convict is hiding in a car boot when the driver gets caught up in a routine stop.

I’m also not on the road often enough to see many stops. There was a checkpoint near Cervantes on a recent trip to the Pinnacles, but that was spot checks for rock lobster and fish. I didn’t know what to expect from this kind of stop, didn’t know if there would be saliva tests that would then flag up my ADHD medication. And if they did, what then? Would someone have to call my psychiatrist?

In the end, the stop came to nothing more than checking my driver’s licence, a breath test, and waving me on my way.

Geraldton

Geraldton foreshore

I was greeted by Geraldton less than an hour later, and surprised by the coastal city. In my head, I imagined it a dustier place with colonial-style buildings. Instead, it felt more like Albany, with definite signs of being an agricultural town — which makes sense, in the Wheatbelt.

I pulled in at the first pub I saw. Not immediately obvious was how to get in, but I found the doors to the bar. Locked. It should have been open, but the doors had other ideas.

While I stood off to one side, checking maps for where else I could try, another customer came along. He tried a door. Found it locked. Looked inside. He then appeared to say something to people within, opened the door, and went in. I followed close behind.

The pub was one of those places where the bar is more of a TAB than anything else; men sat at the bar with their pints, watching horse racing.

I looked around on the bar and the walls for a menu, and couldn’t see anything. Surely in a place like that, at lunchtime, you’d want to keep people around by offering food.

I asked the barmaid if they had menus. She looked confused. Are you serving food? Is the kitchen open? It will be for dinner. When’s dinner? Tonight. Nothing now? No.

I thanked them and set off to the foreshore instead. There would have to be somewhere to get food there, and I could enjoy a view of the ocean.

I found another pub, and this time the doors weren’t locked. Except I seemed to have to walk through what appeared to be a hotel lobby, all polished marble and freezing aircon, and into the bar.

This place was as different from the last as you could get. Instead of men drinking beer at the bar and placing their bets, it was a dining room. Tables, set nicely with cloths and wine glasses. And not a single soul in sight. I turned right around and walked back out again. Even if the kitchen was open in this place, it was probably too expensive.

I then gave up on the idea of a pub and settled for a toasted sandwich at a coffee shop. At least it had a view of the sea.

Lunch was brief. I’d spent longer than I wanted to find a place to eat, and figured I could always see Geraldton on the way home. Kalbarri was still two hours further, and I was eager to get there soon.

I’d made a reservation for a canoe tour in Kalbarri the next day. Booking instructions came with the direction to call at 4 pm the day before to check it was going ahead. There wasn’t far to drive, but that deadline was going to strike right between two places — so I resolved to pull in somewhere as close to 4 as I could.

I pulled in at some historic convict trading post. Mobile coverage is what it is outside of major cities, and it was a dead zone. I got out, walked around looking foolish, then jumped back in and sped off to find somewhere else.

The second stop was so unremarkable I didn’t even write notes about it. It was probably a wide spot in the road, but it had mobile reception. And nobody answered when I called.

Ever resourceful, I fired off a quick email and an identical text message and set off once more with Kalbarri in my sights.

Welcome to Kalbarri

The sign for the town crept up on me, and it was a spur of the moment decision to pull over and grab a photo. I’d driven a long way to get to this point, and had little more than 30 minutes left to go.

A short time later, I pulled into the dusty red dirt of the driveway for my home for the next couple of nights.

A short way off the back veranda, a couple of kangaroos were browsing in the early evening sun. The world was quiet, and having driven for so long it all now felt weirdly unreal.

And then realised I had less than an hour until the town’s only supermarket closed.