Point Perp

It's the Australia Day long weekend and my loving partner and I decide to head to the coast. I'm learning about the traditional milestones in the Canberra climber's calendar: long weekends are devoted to coastal trips (Point Perpendicular, Nowra and the like) while the Easter destination is typically the Blue Mountains, on account of the weather.

Australia Day (26 January) commemorates the establishment of the first European settlement at Port Jackson, now part of Sydney, in 1788. The Australian Indigenous folk refer to it as Invasion Day. For climbers, it's a rare opportunity to spend three nights camping (and three full days climbing rather than the usual two) at "The Point".

Trespassers will be blown up

Point Perpendicular is at the tip of the Beecroft Peninsula, which forms the northern headland of Jervis Bay in south-eastern Australia. A large part of the peninsula is under the administration of the Royal Australian Navy for use as a live-firing range. For this reason, access to this part of the peninsula is restricted at certain times: the gravel road leading to the Point is open only from the Friday night to the Sunday evening of normal weekends, and during NSW public/school holidays; the rest of the time it's closed to the public because of Naval gunnery training exercises.

During summer months, Point Perp is a popular weekend camping destination for Sydney-ites. There are two main camping areas on the Beecroft Peninsula and Climber Boy (CB) is aiming for the more picturesque of the two, which is right on the road to the lighthouse (which is where the climbs are) - Honeymoon Bay. Sounds suitably romantic to me!

Honeymoon Bay on the Beecroft Peninsula. Photo by Chris Grounds.

Unfortunately, on this long weekend, a multitude of city folk have had the same bright idea and by the time we get there on Friday night all the designated Honeymoon Bay campsites are taken. The security guard at the boom gate on the lighthouse road won't let us in at this late hour. He eyes our vehicle and quietly asks - "Would you be sleeping in your van?" We reply in the affirmative, not sure whether or not - in so doing - we might be dashing our hopes of some stealth camping somewhere nearby. Instead, he very kindly directs us to a small picnic ground near the beach, a small way back up the highway. "Be discrete!" he advises.

A narrow sandy track through the scrub leads from the highway into a small, secluded gravel car park surrounded by a treated pine log barrier, beyond which is a very tidy-looking grassy picnic ground with timber tables and bench seats. In the headlamps, we can see walking tracks leading off into the scrub and no doubt down to the ocean beach that's beyond the scrub. With windows unwound, we can just hear the surf over the sound of what is now quite a stiff ocean breeze, as it whooshes through the surrounding eucalypts and tea-tree. It's starting to drizzle.

Van life rocks

One of the joys of van life is that you can cook, eat, sleep and house all your worldly goods under cover no matter where or when you pull up. And so it is that we park the van in a flat corner of the car park, and I dive into bed while CB cooks and eats his dinner on the small camping stove, in the shelter of the raised tailgate. The wind is now roaring above the treetops and every now and then blows a gust-worth of drizzle into our shelter, but all is good in the world.

Soon enough we see headlights coming into the car park, and another van cruises in. The driver discreetly parks in another corner, at a van-approved distance away from us, and he and passenger follow much the same routine as we did - set up bed, cook dinner under shelter of tailgate.

CB is looking over to our van neighbour and suddenly exclaims - "Hey David!!" I am constantly amazed at the vastness of CB's network of friends and acquaintances. It's a climbing world thing, I'm quickly discovering. The other van, it turns out, contains friends of CB's (another "Climber Couple"), also looking to do some climbing at The Point over the long weekend. CB and his mate chinwag for a while and rumble on about the virtues of Van Life, Climbing Girlfriends, and Mont brand camping lanterns. The general consensus is that the weather is looking shite but hopefully will clear by tomorrow.

The wind, she did howl

Sunshine reigns supreme the next morning and there's a gale force easterly wind roaring over the peninsula. We break camp and head for The Point itself, at the southern-most tip of the peninsula, and where the historic lighthouse is located atop sheer sandstone cliffs that tower 60-80 metres above the ocean.

Point Perpendicular, Jervis Bay. Photo by Chris Grounds.

"Only" the top half of the cliff face is suitable for climbing, however, as the lower 40-50m is made up of "tottering choss stacks" that are impossible to get a solid hand or foot hold onto, or protective climbing gear into. The top half of the cliff, by contrast, is solid rock and is characterised by famed “Point Perp pockets” (formed from erosion of brachiopod fossils), which simply beg for hand, foot and gear placement.

There are hundreds of gazetted climbs on the Point Perp cliff face, all conveniently graded by level of difficulty so that you know (approximately) how much of a challenge you've committed to in climbing back up, once you've launched yourself over the edge via your abseil rope.

Climbers talk about the level of "exposure" that characterises a cliff - that's the empty space below a climber; usually the distance a climber is above the ground or large ledge, or the psychological sense of this distance due to being unprotected by climbing gear, or because the rock angles away due to climbing an arête (sharp outward facing corner on a steep rock face) or overhang. It turns out that one of the big attractions that Point Perp holds for climbers world-wide is its exposure levels, which have been described as somewhere between "plenty" and "totally mindblowing"! ...you don't say!!

On this fine, sunny morning, CB and I venture out of the lighthouse car park and head towards the cliffs. Quaint little signs abound, warning ordinary folk of the surrounding dangers. But we're climbers, so we don't count.

Closer to the cliffs we find a tall cyclone fence and more warning signs. But we're climbers, and fences certainly won't stop us! The well-worn track winding its way past the signs and around  the fence is attest to that.

Now we're wandering along the top of the cliffs, with vast ocean views beyond what appears to be a perfect right-angle between the cliff top and face. I marvel at the confidence and assuredness with which CB strolls within inches of the edge. I keep myself well aback. Thankfully the massively strong wind is coming off the ocean and ripping up the cliff face, helping me to maintain a comfortable distance between myself and that sharp right-angled edge. All the same, it looks like a hairily spooky place altogether, and in between gusts of howling wind I start to hear the familiar echoes of the thousand-headed monster, taunting me from some place in the future.

Upward drafts can help climbers!

To my relief (obvious or otherwise), CB declares the day to be too windy for climbing. In fact at some stage we lie ourselves face down right at the cliff edge, surveying the ocean swell below. CB is pointing out some of the climbs he has done in the past, up some of the impossibly blank-looking walls that drop vertically from beneath our noses. I pick up a small rock and idly plop it over the edge ... it floats quiveringly out from the cliff edge but doesn't drop at all, held perfectly aloft by the raging updraft. After some seconds it floats gently back towards me, bumps into the cliff face, and bounces back over the void as if held aloft by an invisible string. I watch this small rock do a series of floats and bounces across the cliff face, level with my nose at the edge of the cliff, until gravity finally wins and the small rock sweeps off towards the ocean way below.

Quite fun, really! I've found a cliff-top version of skipping stones on flat water. The scientist in me now takes over and I start experimenting with different rock sizes and applying varying degrees of throwing force so that the rock falls further from the cliff face. I discover an optimum rock size / throwing force ratio that effects the "floating rock" phenomenon. CB ups the ante and picks up a dried out branch from the nearby scrub. He hurls it over the edge and the wind picks it up and hurls it back with even greater force, making it spin over our prostrate forms and land 10m or so behind us. Good one CB!

White-Bellied Sea Eagle

With climbing off the agenda, we head off looking for more "sedate" entertainment: a delightful bike ride to Currarong, on the western (ocean) side of the Beacroft Peninsula, some slack-line practice back at camp with CB's friends and a sociable German family travelling by van up and down the east Australian coast, and some lovely ocean swimming at our largely private beach. There's a photographer guy there (who also arrives in a van) taking pictures of the local sea eagle by throwing it fish and shooting it as it comes to claim its "prey".