A Tale of Bungholes & Ultra Vixons

So limestone isn't the most plentiful thing going as far as Australia is concerned and it's easy to cry poor, wish for more and curse the sandstone hemming us in whilst longing for the continent. But there's a place, a place where limestone is the only thing on the menu, where a river cuts ancient stone down deep, deep down to form a narrow ultra-vixon gorge, with giant north and south walls but a stones throw from each other. The walls are made up of rocks mountains in size and they are so sheer in front, and so compactly built together on a level floor, that, comprehensively seen, enclose the gorge floor and appear as though they are the immense halls of temples lighted from above. Every rock seems to glow with life. Some lean back in majestic repose; others, absolutely sheer, or nearly so, for thousands of feet, advance their brows in thoughtful attitudes beyond their companions, giving welcome to storms and calms alike, seemingly conscious yet heedless of everything going on about them, awful in stern majesty, types of permanence, yet associated with beauty of the frailest and most fleeting storms. Around the bottom, splashed about slick and clean are the long dislodged hunks of rock that have tumbled down off of the walls, lodging themselves good and proper for god knows how long against each other to be lapped glassy smooth by the excitable puppy river waters of the ages. Below the sweeping expanse of the 300m high walls, the cliffs tuck in at the base forming an overhanging section about 20m high in places.

Bungonia Gorge has long been known for having some of the best and most unique multi-pitch climbing in the country and more recently has seen new activity on the sport climbing and bouldering front in isolated pockets of this immense place. It does appear though that despite all the knowledge of it's uniqueness and the activity Bungonia has see up until now, the true potential of the place remains to be realised.
(from the top of the second pitch)

Me brother 'n I were struck by the potential of the place in a kind of by proxy way, through daydreams from our far flung bunks we'd recall all the amazing walls hemming the place in that, as wee chillin's still on the teet of our mentors we'd dismissed as dirty or holdless in the entirety, bottom to top, impossible. But now, war wearied and grizzly faced by the experiences of several lifetimes and coursed by our daydreams, we headed back down to Bungonia for the first time in about three years to check out a wall on the north side that was reputed to be a veritable cheese platter of shit rock. The wall is a kind of diamond shape, approximately 150m long from tale to top and overhanging about 60m. Yes you heard me right, 60m in 150m! Now of course, we weren't sure of how this bolting foray would go, perhaps it would indeed be wholly gash and totally unworthy of our steel but we couldn't not go up there and have a look, with what both our imaginations had told us, it was a goldmine awaiting a shovel and a pan. To quote a great man, "I was drawn to what I was not certain, and that which I could not sleep without knowing".

We thought we'd aid bolt on up, check it out, and if it was an unholy nursery rhyme of cheddar cheese and crumbly crackers we'd turn our attention to the overhanging walls skirting the base of the south walls, which was certain to be the trustee of brilliance, and a reliable second option.

Our first mission down to check out the Chicken Wall (which is it's name) was actually a couple of years ago now, 2-3 or some such length 'a time. It was a summer like no other, rain rain, rain painfully dispersed in god forsaken showers about 20mins apart for....months! It was soooo hot and wet, like trying to exist in a Malasian rainforest jammed into a pressure cooker. Secondly, we made the mistake of camping in the gorge with all our bolting stuff and camping stuff (you can only appreciate the extent of this mistake when you try and walk out of this joint with a light day bag, let alone camping AND bolting gear. What green stems!). We spent two days down there bolting ground up with stumpy 8mm dyna-bolts, Lee breaking the new ground and I coming up behind sticking the big fatty bolts in and brushing. We decided to follow a vague diagonal line starting at the narrow bottom tip and hopefully finishing up the highest tip. As Lee moved up with every successive baby-boo-bolt it dawned on him more and more...this ain't no grumbling mass of stink'in bishop, no sir, this was A-grade, orange and blue steeeeeeep(!) limestone, and the best thing? There were holds! and good ones too, at least good enough to be certain that the thing went but not so good that it was gonna be jugs and certainly not on the border between iffy and impossibliffy, it was just all there. And they kept coming too, slopers, pockets and big fat flake features up aretes and exposed, daunting faces. We finished that trip at the top of what we thought would be the end of pitch two, with a little gulping unknown waiting above that would have to wait until next time. One thing was certain, what was to come was no less trouser filling, no sirrreee it was NOT.

(Lee drilling the holes for the anchors with drill bit silhouetted)
The next trip down was, for some strange reason the next summer but one thing was the same, it was the same grim, sweltering rainforest conditions with which to finish bolting this thing. We drove down the night before loaded with all the necessary tricks to finish it off. We cooked some chow in the lovely kitchen they built for all the marauding climbers that visit Bungonia and crawled into our far too small tent and laid awake till sunrise, such was the wretched sweat-filth-box-mozzy harboring weather. We woke up though, fresh and had quickly bubbled up our bacon and were on our way to the car park where the eflux track starts. We started sorting out gear and dividing it equally between our bags. I had the ropes, Lee had the biners but who had the bolts???...?!!! Lee was meant to but it seems he left them on the kitchen table in a brown paper bag....(what follows is the single funniest moment of my life).

As I said, it was Lee's fault, the bolts weren't there, he was meant to pack them and they AIN"T here...Lee realises this after frantically searching in hope he was mistook, he wasn't. From there the comedy began. Using the strength a mother summons to overcome the cement pylon crushing her child, Lee picked up the full(!) 75ltr haul bag that had a wet 100m static and another 50m rope in it and threw it, I kid you not, 5 metres into the air, hitting a tree branch and coming crashing to the ground and vomiting its contents out like a squashed rabbits gizzards beneath a heavy foot. He then started trembling, like powerful shivering with a grimace like a small dog trying to shit a submarine, he brought his hands up to the collar of his shirt, closed his hands and tore it apart right down the middle like Hulk Hogan with an elongated scream like a belching whale. The shirt flopped down around his wrists and then fell limply to the ground. Of corse I was laughing but didn't want to get torn in half myself so I turned around trying, but not really hiding the fact that I had all the worlds laughter within me, I couldn't breath...

So of corse we couldn't bolt, what to do but drive home the 3 hours, get the bolts and drive back and repeat the sleep over process.

For all our toil we weren't disappointed. The universe I think saw that we meant business and was more than likely fearful that Lee might furnish it a new gaping orifice and so fitted out the remainder of the route with holds. Not only did the line finish where we'd hoped, up the most insanely exposed set of roof's capping the wall but it did so via an exposed arete which lead into the roof's above which were littered with massive strange cobble features. As good as it gets doesn't really cut it. Despite having stumbled across what is more than likely the single greatest discovery made by any human ever, we were shagged. With all the driving and the stress associated with Lee's genetic misgivings coupled with the two 12 hour days hanging in the harness without food or water we drove home, happy but weary and like the two hobbits returning from Mordor in Isaiah 53:5, we had "fought and prevailed over the grim evils in dark places, and now, battle wearied and broken with eyes to the graceful heavens we go forward". The route was ready go!

(This was the early plan for the last pitch,it now goes slightly left up the arete and through the stacked roof's rather than skirting around it).

Just the other week we went on down to give it a burn and maybe bolt some other routes down on the riverbed while we were at it. We gave the route the working title of 'Bergurk', seeing as though the wall is called Chicken Wall it seemed fitting. All the moves went fairly easily and without to much trouble, but pulling on every second second to try the moves over 150m completely drained all our stores of goo, and we didn't get a chance to try the moves on the 3rd pitch however, it didn't look as hard as the second pitch which we thought would be about 32 or 33. We decided we'd rest our flamed arms the next day and bolt some more routes ground up. Down on the river we bolted three routes between us in one day, but didn't get a chance to give 'em any curry before the fading light of an already grey day finely left us to walk on out with all our bolting kit in the dark.


When we bolted the routes I was concerned that a massive tree would ruin my ability to skip clips on the upper section of the route I bolted, but by the time we got back down to try them the gorge had experienced a spot of heavy rain that had flooded the whole place. So deep was the water that there was sticks and leaf's jammed into the third bolts of our routes! The water must have been about 7m deep. The 15m high tree was gone, washed away down stream along with the rope we had stashed into a hidey hole that was meant to save us the trouble of bringing another, we did though luckily. At the base of our routes though, washed up into the upturned stump of a fallen tree was the very ripe carcass of a wallaby, unfortunately beyond even Lee's resuscitation efforts. We tried our routes for the whole day half gagging the whole time with maggots making some kind of pilgrimage over our ropes away from the carcass and you couldn't help but step on them and they do say you are what you eat, and yes they did show signs of having eaten copious amounts of rotten flesh that was for sure, they reeked, got stuck in the soles of your shoes and all.


Ummmm yes, so I don't know how that tale ended, it hasn't I guess, so thats it until next time, just thought I'd waffle on about some of our recent adventures. Limestone isn't that plentiful in Oz but with a bit of cleaning and some concentrated effort Bungonia Gorge will be one of the more important crags in the country in the future, with walls of big overhanging limestone with more features than you could poke an inside-out wallaby carcass at and boulders splashed around like nobodies business.


Get innu it like ya know!