Ku-ring-gai Clippings Vol 12

Ku-ring-gai Clippings
Being a collection of 19th and 20th century newspaper articles with a connection to the Municipality of Ku-ring-gai.

Editor: R.N.Whitaker
email: whitsend1@optushome.com.au

Volume 12 – issued 18th December 2009

EXTRACT FROM AN ARTICLE “ON COWAN CREEK”, by the Spectre

Sydney – The Sydney Morning Herald, Tuesday 14th August 1894.

It is no new discovery this Cowan Creek, though many people, on hearing that the Government had very wisely made a second national park of the surrounding district, imagined that an entirely unknown country was to be opened up. For years past the creek has been a favourite resort of yachtsmen, but until the Northern line was taken through to the Hawkesbury, it was difficult to reach the place in any less expensive way.

Even then, though tho creek was brought within little more than an hour's journey from Sydney, it was not so easy to get about it, since so boats could be obtained. Two or three years ago, however, an enterprising boat-builder noticed the deficiency, and the result is that any part of the creek can now be visited at a minimum of expense, and with less difficulty than is involved in getting from one suburb of Sydney to another.

Dark openings on the hillside indicate at every turn the presence of caves
and in these weather-worn hollows one will almost invariably find traces of the modern camper, the inevitable jam tin and beer bottle, or it may be the ashes of a recent fire. Naturally the picnicking Harry, like his prototype in tho old country, leaves hi name behind him as if it were a matter of interest for anyone to know that he had slept and shivered for a night or two there. The only value to be attached to these inscriptions is the dates, which occasionally go well back into the sixties, showing that over 30 years ago people had the determination to find their way into this region, which must then have been almost inaccessible.

All this, however, is a matter of today, since 30 years counts but as a moment in the real history of the place.

The very name which Mr. Copeland has given it is indicative of its previous occupancy, though for how many centuries the Ku-ring-gai tribe lived and fought and fished and wore out their barbarous lives among these cave-pierced hills, no one can tell. The lapse of years must have been very great, judging by the abundance of debris left behind by these old-time campers-out. On every hillside, beneath every hollow in the rock one sees growths of the long rank grass which flourishes on the kitchen middens of the aboriginals.

In the caves themselves, the accumulation is more easily examined, and the exciting sport of bone-hunting, which is as full of chances as gold-mining, may be indulged in. I spent the whole of one afternoon digging in a cave, and found nothing but a stone oyster-opener, though next day a complete skeleton, a rare trouvaille, was unearthed In a large cave now being cleaned out by a Sydney gentleman who intends to use it as a habitation for himself and family; the floor is covered to a depth of some 6ft with a solid mass of shells and ashes.

Editors’ note: Trouvaille is a French word meaning “valuable find” or “valuable discovery”. Why the author suddenly changed into French is unclear.

Ono can see clearly, as a section is made through the stuff, the place where the aboriginal fire was lit, perhaps centuries ago; then another layer of ashes, which must have been years in accumulating, then again more ashes, and so on. It is a somewhat unaccountable fact that, though oysters are so plentiful all round the shores of the creek, but few of their shells, and those very small ones, are found amongst the debris.

Tho aboriginals seem to have lived almost entirely on mussels and cockles, with an occasional whelk thrown in by way of dessert. It may be that the abundant oyster growth is of modern date, and that when the blacks were plentiful-and there are men still living who remember them forty years ago -the bivalve had no chance to spread itself over the closely cropped rooks; but alter the savages left or died out, all checks on its multiplication were removed. To-day one can have as many delicious oysters as one chooses simply for tho trouble of knocking them off the rocks, and it is hard to suppose that if they had been as plentiful in the old times the aboriginals would have neglected this easily gathered food.

There are a good many theories to account for tho presence of the bones to be found in nearly every cave and the most probable one is that the natives chose these places for sepulchres because the debris were soft and easy to dig in. In this country of rocks it is hard to find a place where one can dig a grave even a foot in depth and as a stone tomahawk seems to have been about the only implement the natives possessed, they naturally could not do much excavation. As it was, in the soft accumulations of the caves, they only dug down about 2ft and then, acting upon their well-known superstition, abandoned the place as a dwelling for ever.

The white camper is not so particular. He sleeps cheerfully in the ghost haunted caverns, heedless of the tale of human misery and suffering which every point of the country has to tell. There is one big rock on the Hawkesbury, which they say covers the skeletons of two or three hundred picked warriors. The legend, which has been passed on from the natives to the white man states that during one of tho numerous tribal wars between tho coastal and the inland clans, is a great storm came on. The men took refuge in this cave but owing to the rain, or perhaps a lightning stroke, the rock fell in upon them. The truth could only be ascertained by removing the rock, an expense which no one is likely to incur though today some modern vandals have painted an hotel advertisement on this huge natural gravestone.

The dawn of art has left its traces here in many a smoke-blackened cavern and on many a precipitous height. The district has never been systematically explored and therein perhaps lies its chief charm, for one knows not what surprises may be stumbled upon accidentally. I remember one afternoon fishing for bream under what is locally known as a ' wall"-that is to say, a place where the rock drops perpendicularly, so that there is deep water close to shore. The fish are very fond of these spots and hero we caught bream and jewfish with an occasional sole and trevally until we were tired of the sport.

And there, right above us, halfway up the hillside, we saw a dark opening just peeping out through tho scrub. ' There's a cave up there, said my friend who is an enthusiastic explorer, " let's climb up. " So we did climb up, forcing our way with infinite difficulty through the tangled creepers which barred every approach, tearing our clothes, and scratching our hands with the thorns, stumbling over rotten tree trunks which crashed away from beneath our feet until at last we met our reward. We reached a large weather worn cave running right along the face of the cliff, which bore no trace of human visitation. Even the usual signs of the white camper, the empty jam tin, the half-burned logs, were missing; the solitude, nor merely of today, but of centuries, seemed to hang over the place. It really looked as if no human being had been there since tho day when a naked savage traced with his charcoal stick those rude drawings on tho wall.

All along the back of the cave, for a space of 20 or 30 yards, there were outlined, in the crudest fashion, the likeness of the things most familiar to the aboriginal. Living in the bush, with foliage all around, he tried to reproduce a grass tree. Subsisting mainly on fish, he drew tracings of them, and as hunting was his only spoil, he assayed the likeness of a kangaroo. Naturally the latter task was much too difficult for the untutored fingers, and the result is an indescribable beast looking somewhat like a magnified beetle. All these tracings seem to be indelible; they have withstood the wear of the weather for who knows how long, and the charcoal, being mixed with animal fat will not rub off.

It is the quaintest, the wildest art gallery ever man made. The building is of nature's own contriving; there are no bricks and mortar to distract your attention; the only windows are the irregular openings between the crooked gums and clustering bushes, yet they give sufficient light and the rocks give ample shelter, and this was all the primitive man needed.

A little stream of water falls, drop-by-drop from the roof and just beneath it, encouraged by the moisture, a wild fig has taken root, and, striking out horizontally towards tho light, has grown into a vigorous tree. Very likely its roots are inter- twisted with the bones of an aboriginal; there may be dozens of skeletons beneath our feet but it seems a pity to disturb them, they have chosen such a peaceful spot in which to rest.