Five-minute read: Marshall Kelly goes in search of an elusive childhood haunt.
It all started on Saturday, about a half century ago, when my brother Scott and I, together with four other boys, were taken by the father of two of the boys (Mr Jay) on a hike in the Morton National Park in southern NSW. Way back then we only knew it as the gullies at the back of the Wingello State Forest.
We were all aged around 11 and squeezed into Mr Jay’s car as we headed to a destination unknown to us, somewhere past the pine forest. On arrival, we hiked down through a gap in the cliffs to what we now know was Johnson’s Creek way down below. We spent a night there on the bank and returned on the Sunday evening, ready for school the next morning.
The mission was accomplished by following the creek that then joined Bundanoon Creek. What a time we had: swimming, laughing and larking about and exploring rocky overhangs with a few grazed knuckles into the bargain. As night drew in, Mr Jay managed to catch an eel, which he cut up and we all took a portion home as a souvenir and “gift” to our mums. That whole weekend was magic and a memory that has stayed with my brother and I to this day.
Scott and I, reminiscing one day, decided to revisit that spot and spend a night there. The only complication was our rusty memories. After all, it was about 50 years before. Exactly which creek was it? How did we get there? Could we find it again?
Sadly, Mr Jay was now long gone, together with one of the other boys who had died aged 45. Mr Jay’s sons just weren’t interested and we had lost contact with the others completely.
I invested in a topographical map of Wingello and searched for the likely location. I then set off with Scott and my two sons, Luke and Shannon, to revisit our childhood memory. However, Mother Nature had her way, and we couldn’t make our way through the dense undergrowth, despite the creek calling up to explore. Fortunately, we were able to find a flat area to camp for the night and went to sleep with the creek quietly taunting us.
Undaunted, the following year the group had grown to seven and we tried again but the terrain was too steep; what I had read as a gap proved to be a waterfall and was impassable.
With our fourth and final attempt (now with eight of us), I finally identified the correct location. As we worked our way down, Scott and I recognised it as the correct place – persistence had paid off.
That night, as we camped by Johnson’s Creek, I proposed a toast with green ginger wine (we know how to enjoy ourselves) and thanked all those intrepid souls who had helped us return after all of those years. Perhaps, more to the point, my brother and I had survived and were able to successfully complete what is a demanding walk.
That night we caught an eel but released it rather than chop it up – maybe that one caught all those years ago hadn’t tasted so great.