World of Waterfalls in Blue Mountains National Park

The fog was so low and heavy that I felt as though I were in a snow globe that started and ended at the ends of the block. Church spires rose like phantoms, trees were mere shadows. I could hardly get a feel for the town of Katoomba, much less what lay beyond. I knew I was in the Blue Mountains, as we’d gotten off at the correct train station, but I didn’t know if any of those mountains surrounded us.

As we left the town center behind, following our little tourist map to the Blue Mountains visitor center, we walked down and down at a fairly steep angle and yet before us was nothing but grey. We strode past a boutique hotel that boasted incredible views and studied a small photo of the surroundings on their dinner menu, trying to project that view into the nothingness before us, but with little luck. We still had our spirits up, however, as even if none of the lookouts we’d planned to visit would show us anything, at least waterfalls are still easy to view in the mist, and sometimes only look more magical for being draped in fog. But we’d figure that out at the visitor center.

So we kept walking. Eventually the path curved and we found ourselves not on a street-side sidewalk but on a little path. The way the trees dropped away before us suggested a steep slope below. I spotted a red bird in the distant trees. As we continued, Julia snatched her phone from her pocket, glimpsing, for the briefest of seconds, the silhouette of the side of a mountain, but then the mist swallowed it again before she could take a photo. I saw, ahead, a lookout platform, and then again the briefest outline of a mountain. Further to the left—more mountain. “Hurry, before it disappears.” We ran the last 50 yards to the lookout where, to our complete surprise, far more of the valley was visible. Katoomba, we realized (we should have researched), is on top of a mountain, not in a valley. And falling away below us was a sheer cliff-side, and we stood looking out beyond over a sea of eucalyptus trees framed by orange cliff-sides rising at the sides of table-top mountains.

To my left, I spotted a rock formation I recognized. “It’s the three sisters,” I called to Julia. We’d been discussing this famous rock formation on the train (famous in that three people in New Zealand asked if I’d see the Three Sisters when I went to the Blue Mountains). So I figured I had better see it.

A lower viewing platform stood empty of people, so I gestured to that one and Julia and I began to jog around the curve, looking for the staircase down. We didn’t know how the clouds were moving or when the mist would engulf the whole area again, so we were in a hurry, but of course the route down to the viewing platform with a good view of the Three Sisters was the most circuitous route ever made, folding back on itself at least three times. We had to slow to a walk as the planks were slippery from the soaking mist, but finally we reached the lookout, the fog still at bay. At least, if we saw nothing else, we got to see the Three Sisters. And they were extraordinary. I now understood the repeat question.

The cliffs of the Blue Mountains, including the arresting rock formation of the Three Sisters, were formed because blocks of the cliffside (layered basalt from ancient lava flows) erode away.

Satisfied with our viewing, we continued to the visitors center where a friendly ranger gave us detailed instructions and well-marked map explaining which hike we should do today (during the misty weather) and which one we should do the next day (during the forecasted sunny weather). And so we set out for an adventure.

And adventures abounded. As Katoomba is atop a mountain and the best of the Blue Mountains National Park has to do with amazing cliff sides, the only way is down. Generally, straight down. The infrastructure is incredible as we descended over 900 stairs (known as the Giant Staircase) clinging to the side of a cliff face. Sometimes they were stone steps carved into the cliffside, other times metal, almost ladders. But we made it down to the forest floor, awed and delighted by the challenge of it all. And also wary, because we knew we’d have to ascend at some point.

We walked along the bottom in a world of green, surrounded by eucalyptus and vines. When I could tear my attention away from the peace and beauty of our surroundings, I remembered to mentally chant don’t let there be snakes. Don’t let there be snakes. But most of the time I forgot and just enjoyed the cloudy forest and chilled mist and masses of bright flora.

When it was time to climb, I felt myself spurred on by the hopes of seeing a waterfall. The scribbled on map that I kept consulting listed Katoomba Falls as an attraction. We crossed a small stream and waterfall before the climb began and were hoping that dinky little thing wasn’t the “great” Katoomba Falls. Our hope propelled us upward.

And we were rewarded.

Because of the massive cliff sides where entire chunks of mountain have fallen away or eroded away, Katoomba Falls cascades from the top, where the town of Katoomba reigns, falling 800 feet against a backdrop of orange cliffside rimmed in green. The streams of clouds and puffs of mist (as well as the lack of people) lent an abandoned-earth feel to the whole experience. Julia and I exchanged glances, delving ever higher up the steep stairs for increasingly better and better views of this beautiful scene.

As we continued upward, we entered the cloud layer. The tall trees and fading light (it was about half an hour until sunset) created a cursed woods vibe. We hadn’t seen other people in at least 20-minutes and I was glad to not be alone. Even though the trail was well marked, it felt like the clouds were becoming closer and thicker, and that I could simply be swallowed up by it, lost among the grey.

The following morning did dawn bright and sunny and we woke to a completely different world. Bushy clouds stuck high to the dome of the blue sky and the whole expanse of the view was available to us.

Instead of staying in Katoomba, we took the train back two stops to Wentworth Falls Station. From there, we walked a park path to the edge of the National Park and enjoyed beautiful views.

We descended again (as there is nowhere else to go but down). This time, the steps brought us into a world of water. It felt Jurassic.

It felt like Dinotopia. When I was young, my brother and I would get books from the library about a place called Dinotopia where dinosaurs and people co-existed. The books didn’t tell stories, merely sported the most intricate and vivid of drawn pictures of a world where people rode dinosaurs from detailed saddles and white marble towers held Ancient Greek-esque arched rooms where children played with baby dinos and outside waterfalls fell down in curtains to an indeterminate end point.

Obviously, there weren’t dinosaurs in the Blue Mountains National Park, but the water cascading everywhere, the trees, the ferns, the deep canyon we descended ever deeper into, even the name of the hiking trail—The Valley of the Waters—felt like it could have been the backdrop for a scene in Dinotopia where pterodactyls swooped above the broad-leafed trees. We kept going down and down, walking through the river which cascaded ever further in a braid of silver against dark rock and dripping greenery.

We could have continued down and down to the forest floor, but the track was closed mid-way due to flood damage, so we turned around and ascended again through one of the most beautiful places I’ve ever been. Beautiful both in looks, but also in the wild, imaginative feel of the place. Like it was possible that something lost to time could appear at any moment.

After the Valley of the Waters, we walked the Overcliff and Undercliff Track toward Wentworth Falls. This track led us along the edge, sometimes the literal edge, of the cliff. We walked beneath overhands and glanced down at sharply falling away cliffs. At Wentworth Falls, we found all the people.

Like Katoomba Falls, Wentworth Falls winds serenely down a gentle slope through the little town until it reached the edge of the cliff and plummets down and down. Signs everywhere warn people not to enter the water. Not to swim. Not to stand on the rocks. Not to go enywhere near the 187-meter fall just beyond the barrier.

This instant plummet makes it difficult to view the falls from above, but we found the best viewpoint was a little farther on.

Then, we decided to go down.

We descended another massive staircase, this time called the Grand Staircase, to the base of Wentworth Falls. And this was definitely the best view of the falls as you are nearly beneath it, able to see the sheets of water tumbling down.

The climb back up, even though the sun was scorching, wasn’t even that bad after such a great reward at the bottom.

The Blue Mountains was one of the most magical places I have ever been. So many people looked at me askance when I told them I was visiting Australia after New Zealand, suggesting in no uncertain terms that for someone who loved mountains, New Zealand was far superior. And the Blue Mountains were not massive mountains by any New Zealand or Colorado standards. They weren’t snow-capped and jagged and wild and savage and all of the many things that I adore so much about New Zealand and Colorado. But the vastness of the forests and valleys and the sudden plummeting cliffs amidst the forest of green-blue trees makes the entire area feel enormous.

And the water is the most magical of all. The massive waterfalls and the intimate silver-hued Valley of the Waters—though so different—were enchanting and lively and magical. My dad talks a lot about living water and throughout my entire hiking experience in the Blue Mountains, the water felt more alive than anywhere I’d ever been, and that feeling seemed to ripple out of the streams and falls, carried on every drop of mist and dew, until the entire area felt more lively than any forest I’ve been in.