The Tunnel
Some months ago a colleague(a fellow expatriate) and I were chatting about bush walking around Sydney. He and I got to talking about the coast track in the Royal National Park. The Royal National Park is a big patch of green on the map just south of Sydney. Last year, Jean and I hiked the 26 kilometer long trail along the park's eastern edge.
My colleague had walked the trail as well. "Did you go through the tunnel?" he asked.
"What tunnel?" He told me that as part of a friend's birthday request, he and a small party had accompanied the friend on a hike from the town of Stanwell Park through a 1.6 kilometer(1 mile) long disused railway tunnel to Otford(southern end of the park) and then along the whole 26 kilometer track to Bundeena in the North. I was, to use his terminology, gobsmacked. We spent two days covering that distance. I was also intrigued by the revelation of this little gem of Australian industrial archaeology.
With the assistance of Mr. Google, I soon found myself on a forum where a somewhat heated discussion regarding the disused tunnel had taken place a couple of years ago. The thread devolved into a something of a flame war regarding the legality of hiking the tunnel. However, the general consensus was that it'd be okay. No worries right? This is Australia after all. The pro-tunnel advocates argued that the tunnel is National Heritage listed and as one of the forum posters wrote, "that [no trespassing] sign looks like its yonks old." Some cheesy supernatural themed videos about the tunnel provided by Mr. Youtube further bolstered my conviction that hiking it wouldn't be a problem.
Unfortunately, I'd shown my wife the forum and she was less swayed. After much cajoling, watching of the Youtube videos and most importantly having some friends sign on for our little expedition she reluctantly agreed to go along with it.
Saturday morning came bright and sunny and we had a little excitement right off the bat at our very own, very much in use King's Cross Railway Station. One of the many things we like about the Royal National Park is that we can hop on a train at King's Cross and ride it all the way to the park without changing trains. A train runs to Stanwell park every two hours so we coordinated schedules with the other members of our party, Ben, Vicky, Sunita and Neel, to meet us on the train at Central station. Central is a few stops after King's Cross and aptly named as nice point for us all to converge.
Jean and I arrived on the King's Cross platform a few minutes before the expected departure time only to discover that the train had been cancelled. That's what we deduced at least. The schedule board listed another train in the place of the one going to Stanwell Park. From a garbled announcement we also gleaned that there had been a cancellation and something about Hurstsville (a station on the line past Central). Moments after the message crackled to an end a train rolled up to the platform.
We boarded it and tried to get in touch with our friends at Central. Jean got Vicky on the line for about twenty seconds before we went into a tunnel and lost the connection. At Central, we hopped out on the platform to see if anyone was there. No one from our party.
We hopped back on the train and waited restlessly for a mobile signal. Ten minutes later the train emerged in the sunshine. After a few tries Jean got Vicky back on the line. She, Ben, Neel and Sunita were on a train bound for Stanwell Park. Our train was ahead of theirs so it was just a matter of transferring at a station sometime before we were overtaken.
Luckily, I struck up a conversation with another passenger, a guy dressed in khaki carrying trekking poles and a rucksack. He was going to Otford in the Royal National Park and he'd be transferring at the very next stop to get that train. We got off with him and five minutes later boarded another train and conveniently enough found Vicky, Ben, Sunita and Neel in the third carriage.
As we eased south, the suburban Sydney sprawl faded into forested hills of the park. Drawing near to our destination I began to feel some trepidation. There was the potential trespassing issue of course. But I also think I've developed a smart phone inferiority complex. That morning I'd sketched a map on a piece of notebook paper from the Stanwell Park train station to what I believed was the mouth of the disused tunnel. The forum posters had supplied slightly conflicting information in regard to the entrance location. I'd drawn in a few extra roads just in case but I was worried that in the event my guess was really wrong, my hand map wouldn't pan and zoom so well.
Nearing Otford, we toyed with alighting, and just settling for a hike around the park. Inertia and mutual indecision carried us on Stanwell Park. Stanwell Park is a picturesque little community nestled in the leafy hills overlooking the coast. Following the map we passed through the neighborhood and on to a heavily wooded residential road.
The houses soon gave way to wilderness and the pavement turned to gravel. Recalling details from the discussion forum, this would have been the path the train tracks leading to the tunnel. My stomach began to flutter with anticipation. Turning around a bend I stopped short at the sight of the the great gaping entrance cut in hillside. The graffiti streaked sandstone archway overgrown with foliage seemed surreal out here in the woods. It felt like and incongruity or some sort of spatial anachronism. Closer inspection revealed a rusty iron grill covering the tunnel's mouth. This would prevent vehicular access, however the pedestrian gate built in the center of the grill stood open. We had a last minute, "Should we really be doing this," conversation before readying our flashlights. Then we descended into the darkness.
My colleague had walked the trail as well. "Did you go through the tunnel?" he asked.
"What tunnel?" He told me that as part of a friend's birthday request, he and a small party had accompanied the friend on a hike from the town of Stanwell Park through a 1.6 kilometer(1 mile) long disused railway tunnel to Otford(southern end of the park) and then along the whole 26 kilometer track to Bundeena in the North. I was, to use his terminology, gobsmacked. We spent two days covering that distance. I was also intrigued by the revelation of this little gem of Australian industrial archaeology.
With the assistance of Mr. Google, I soon found myself on a forum where a somewhat heated discussion regarding the disused tunnel had taken place a couple of years ago. The thread devolved into a something of a flame war regarding the legality of hiking the tunnel. However, the general consensus was that it'd be okay. No worries right? This is Australia after all. The pro-tunnel advocates argued that the tunnel is National Heritage listed and as one of the forum posters wrote, "that [no trespassing] sign looks like its yonks old." Some cheesy supernatural themed videos about the tunnel provided by Mr. Youtube further bolstered my conviction that hiking it wouldn't be a problem.
Unfortunately, I'd shown my wife the forum and she was less swayed. After much cajoling, watching of the Youtube videos and most importantly having some friends sign on for our little expedition she reluctantly agreed to go along with it.
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| The usual suspects |
Jean and I arrived on the King's Cross platform a few minutes before the expected departure time only to discover that the train had been cancelled. That's what we deduced at least. The schedule board listed another train in the place of the one going to Stanwell Park. From a garbled announcement we also gleaned that there had been a cancellation and something about Hurstsville (a station on the line past Central). Moments after the message crackled to an end a train rolled up to the platform.
We boarded it and tried to get in touch with our friends at Central. Jean got Vicky on the line for about twenty seconds before we went into a tunnel and lost the connection. At Central, we hopped out on the platform to see if anyone was there. No one from our party.
We hopped back on the train and waited restlessly for a mobile signal. Ten minutes later the train emerged in the sunshine. After a few tries Jean got Vicky back on the line. She, Ben, Neel and Sunita were on a train bound for Stanwell Park. Our train was ahead of theirs so it was just a matter of transferring at a station sometime before we were overtaken.
Luckily, I struck up a conversation with another passenger, a guy dressed in khaki carrying trekking poles and a rucksack. He was going to Otford in the Royal National Park and he'd be transferring at the very next stop to get that train. We got off with him and five minutes later boarded another train and conveniently enough found Vicky, Ben, Sunita and Neel in the third carriage.
As we eased south, the suburban Sydney sprawl faded into forested hills of the park. Drawing near to our destination I began to feel some trepidation. There was the potential trespassing issue of course. But I also think I've developed a smart phone inferiority complex. That morning I'd sketched a map on a piece of notebook paper from the Stanwell Park train station to what I believed was the mouth of the disused tunnel. The forum posters had supplied slightly conflicting information in regard to the entrance location. I'd drawn in a few extra roads just in case but I was worried that in the event my guess was really wrong, my hand map wouldn't pan and zoom so well.
Nearing Otford, we toyed with alighting, and just settling for a hike around the park. Inertia and mutual indecision carried us on Stanwell Park. Stanwell Park is a picturesque little community nestled in the leafy hills overlooking the coast. Following the map we passed through the neighborhood and on to a heavily wooded residential road.
The houses soon gave way to wilderness and the pavement turned to gravel. Recalling details from the discussion forum, this would have been the path the train tracks leading to the tunnel. My stomach began to flutter with anticipation. Turning around a bend I stopped short at the sight of the the great gaping entrance cut in hillside. The graffiti streaked sandstone archway overgrown with foliage seemed surreal out here in the woods. It felt like and incongruity or some sort of spatial anachronism. Closer inspection revealed a rusty iron grill covering the tunnel's mouth. This would prevent vehicular access, however the pedestrian gate built in the center of the grill stood open. We had a last minute, "Should we really be doing this," conversation before readying our flashlights. Then we descended into the darkness.
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