I flicked my head torch off and pressed my damp back into the cool of the step, carved by hard labour into the ancient volcanic rock. We’d ascended beyond the humidity of the Gondwana-era rainforest, and now the pre-dawn air danced around my flushed skin in tiny, icy zephyrs. Three kilometres into our uphill battle and I was in no position to begrudge the abating temperature of the elements, rather welcomed the relief as I tipped my  head back to marvel at the Milky Way, framed by the thinning forest canopy and seemingly oblivious to the imminent dawn. Rarely does one find oneself halfway up a mountain in total darkness, and as I caught my breath and waited for our party to regroup, I relished in the rawness of it, feeling invigorated and alive.

Spectacular dawn views looking out across the lush hinterland

Two words I would not have used a couple of hours earlier, however, when my alarm rattled zealously at 2.30am. But half an hour later we  were trudging bleary-eyed through thick tropical scrub.

Mount Warning is a long extinct volcano – some 23 million years old – that stands guard over the Eastern Seaboard between Byron Bay and the Gold Coast, the jewel in the crown of the lush coastal hinterland that defines this region. At 1156m tall, it towers above the next highest peak like a flagrant overachiever, a fact Captain James Cook found rather useful for maritime navigation when he named the mountain back in 1770 for its utility as a landmark by which to assess the location of hazardous reefs.

To the local Bundjalung people, however, Mount Warning is known as Wollumbin, meaning ‘cloud catcher’. A fitting title for a kilometre-high behemoth, although we were hoping it did not live up to that namesake today, with our fingers crossed for clear skies. The mountain is regarded as a place of great spiritual significance to the Bundjalung, a sacred site where initiation rites and ceremonies have been performed for millennia.

It’s easy to see where the name ‘cloud catcher’ came from; sun breaking through the thick tropical scrub beside the trail up to the peak

It certainly holds a particular reverence in the landscape, seemingly visible from every road, backyard, and cattle-strewn paddock from the Gold Coast and Byron Bay to Nimbin and beyond. In the days leading up to the hike we had eyed the sheer, bulbous mass of rock atop the mountain with foreboding; were we seriously going to get all the way to the top of that? It remained to be seen. This trek is not for the faint-hearted, and when it came to the final 400m, up the aforementioned rocky peak of Wollumbin, which is placed like a cherry atop the mountain, the process is thankfully aided by a support chain.

Finally, I emerged victorious to the viewing platform at the mountain’s peak, where I promptly collapsed on a bench and quietly congratulated myself.

The sky was blessedly clear and the first glow of dawn glittered on the horizon and bled across  the eastern sky, where only the most radiant of the stars were still hanging on. The lights of the Gold Coast and Byron Bay twinkled knowingly on the coast, despite the fact most of their residents were still tucked away in bed at this ungodly hour of 5.30am. The Tweed River snaked its way sleepily towards the sea like some mythical creature reluctantly slinking into morning, a blanket of fog hanging over the valley through which it weaved hundreds of metres below us. The early dawn light captured every particle of the sea mist that lingered over the ocean, a palate of gold, pink, and inky blue in which it was almost impossible to discern ocean from sky from land. I stood mesmerised for a long while trying to do so before finally accepting this surreal vision for what it was: impossibly beautiful.

Taking a quiet moment to appreciate the views

But it was at the northern viewing platform that I found myself most  charmed. I wandered there out of curiosity, expecting I would quickly give it up in preference for the sunrise from the eastern side. I was wrong. From here, the mountain slopes away more gently and a thick carpet of rainforest covers the contours of its foothills and beyond to Lamington National Park in the north and the Border Ranges in the west. What can only be described as a wall of sound rose up to meet me, an absolute cacophony of bird calls as the avian world awoke to another busy day of flitting and fluttering across hundreds of acres of dense tropical rainforest. I stood so high above the forest floor that I was unable to hear specific birdcalls, rather experienced  deafening choral thrum that vibrated through me like some kind of wonderfully alternate shock therapy. As I trudged up the mountain in the dark I knew I was in for an epic sunrise, but I hadn’t counted on this. It was the highlight of my day, if not my week.

The tough, but equally beautiful descent down the mountain

The horizon eventually gave birth to the sun and we welcomed its light on our faces wholeheartedly; it was mighty cold atop this mountain, even in November. In the winter months, we’d have been the first people on mainland Australia to feel the warmth of the morning sun. In summer, however, that accolade goes to Cape Howe on the Far South Coast of NSW. We only found this out upon reading the sign at the top,  and I’d be lying if I said we didn’t feel a bit pipped at the post.

The beauty of setting out on a there-and-back hike in the dark is that, once the day finally rises to meet you, you see the landscape afresh for the first time, like a hatchling staring wide-eyed at the world. Turns out we’d been trudging through some pretty spectacular scenes: from the wispy alpine scrub at the summit, to bushland dominated by towering gums, and finally to the thick rainforest at the mountain’s base, a moss-covered wonderland of ferns, strangler figs, and elk horns, where plants grow upon plants, upon plants. The descent therefore became an equally beautiful part of the walk – albeit mighty tough on the knees – offering incredible views across the surrounding countryside as the track weaved around the Cloud Catcher.

Pastel-coloured hues dominate the skyline

By 8.30am we were settled into a café in Uki, feeling as though it was surely midday at least. I cupped my hard-earned double latte sleepily, thinking it was nothing that an afternoon nap wouldn’t fix, but for now, I could bask in satisfaction.

The exhausted, yet satisfied crew who conquered Mt Warning

Category: Destinations
Written: Thu 01 Feb 2018
Printed: February, 2018
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