Gariwerd/the Grampians National Park was once one of the best rock-climbing destinations in the world. In 2019, land manager Parks Victoria banned climbing in one third of the park to protect Aboriginal cultural heritage and the environment. Since then, most of the park – 70 percent of routes, 6200 climbs – has been closed to climbing. Leigh Hopkinson looks back on the four-year fight for access.
* ‘Grampians National Park’ and ‘Gariwerd’ have been used interchangeably.
* ‘Grampians National Park’ and ‘Gariwerd’ have been used interchangeably.
The Grampians National Park lies 250 kilometres west of Melbourne in the state of Victoria, Australia. Drive through continuous arid farmland and just past Dadswell Bridge and its giant koala, the mountain ranges of “the Gramps” swing into view. Drive closer and its distinctive orange and grey monoliths take shape, rising up on the diagonal like an invitation. For more than a century, climbers have come here to test themselves on the world-class sandstone.
Above: Click on photos to enlarge. (Photo Credit: Francesco Vicenzi)
In February 2019, one third of the Grampians was closed to climbing by Parks Victoria, subject to cultural and environmental heritage assessments. At 551km², this was the largest rock climbing ban in the world. Some 3200 of 8700 routes were affected, particularly sport climbs. Internationally renowned destinations the Gallery, Muline, and Millenium Caves were banned, while Taipan Wall was placed off-limits in August 2020 as closures continued.
The Grampians – or Gariwerd, as it is known to its Traditional Owners the Djab Wurrung and the Jardwadjali – is home to more than 90 percent of Victoria’s known rock art. Much is in the remote Victoria Range/Billawin, which contains the best and hardest sport climbing. Gariwerd is also environmentally significant: more than 1000 plant species grow there, one third of the state’s flora. According to Parks Victoria, unauthorised crag development, bolting and chalk use, plus a rise in climber numbers – particularly boulderers – were causing harm.
The accusation was galling for those who considered themselves environmentalists. The state’s climbing community had a lengthy history of working with Parks Victoria to stabilise crags and upgrade tracks in the Grampians, with the Victorian Climbing Club’s (VCC) environmental arm, CliffCare, facilitating worker-bees.
From the get-go, the restrictions seemed like a fight between climbers and Parks Victoria. In the media, Parks Victoria falsely accused climbers of bolting in – rather than close to – rock art, and grossly inflated the number of climbers visiting the Grampians, when no comprehensive data existed. These errors led to climbers feeling scapegoated for what some believed was a veiled attempt to commercialise national parks.
How to respond to the bans – try to negotiate with Parks Victoria, or take it to court – divided climbers. Early proposals to engage with the land manager failed to receive critical support; the lack of an official "peak body" didn’t help. Online, savegrampiansclimbing.org led the charge against Parks Victoria , while the Australian Climbing Association of Victoria, founded purely to litigate, fuelled the groundswell. The VCC emerged as the defacto peak body, spearheading the official response.
In mid-2019, I began editing the VCC newsletter, Argus. I’d started climbing in 2015 and was part of the sport’s surge in popularity that had contributed to the closures. I’d explored the Grampians with a guidebook and a sense of wonder, following goat tracks, searching for the glint of bolts. As I reached and clipped, moved and steadied, I thought: This. This is what it means to be alive.
Like many climbers, I hadn’t thought to educate myself about the region’s Indigenous history. More than once, I’d hurried past Gariwerd’s caged art sites to get on the rock. But I soon became fascinated with the bans and the new park management plan process that followed, which was a collaboration between Parks Victoria and Gariwerd’s Traditional Owners. As a New Zealander whose partner and son are Indigenous (Ngai Tahu Maori), protecting cultural values in Gariwerd seemed wholly reasonable, as did positioning the conflict within the wider context of strengthening relations with Aboriginal Australians. I agreed with outgoing VCC president Paula Toal when she said: “We are all going on a journey of reconciliation”. But there wasn’t much oxygen afforded to such views initially.
The Grampians – or Gariwerd, as it is known to its Traditional Owners the Djab Wurrung and the Jardwadjali – is home to more than 90 percent of Victoria’s known rock art. Much is in the remote Victoria Range/Billawin, which contains the best and hardest sport climbing. Gariwerd is also environmentally significant: more than 1000 plant species grow there, one third of the state’s flora. According to Parks Victoria, unauthorised crag development, bolting and chalk use, plus a rise in climber numbers – particularly boulderers – were causing harm.
The accusation was galling for those who considered themselves environmentalists. The state’s climbing community had a lengthy history of working with Parks Victoria to stabilise crags and upgrade tracks in the Grampians, with the Victorian Climbing Club’s (VCC) environmental arm, CliffCare, facilitating worker-bees.
From the get-go, the restrictions seemed like a fight between climbers and Parks Victoria. In the media, Parks Victoria falsely accused climbers of bolting in – rather than close to – rock art, and grossly inflated the number of climbers visiting the Grampians, when no comprehensive data existed. These errors led to climbers feeling scapegoated for what some believed was a veiled attempt to commercialise national parks.
How to respond to the bans – try to negotiate with Parks Victoria, or take it to court – divided climbers. Early proposals to engage with the land manager failed to receive critical support; the lack of an official "peak body" didn’t help. Online, savegrampiansclimbing.org led the charge against Parks Victoria , while the Australian Climbing Association of Victoria, founded purely to litigate, fuelled the groundswell. The VCC emerged as the defacto peak body, spearheading the official response.
In mid-2019, I began editing the VCC newsletter, Argus. I’d started climbing in 2015 and was part of the sport’s surge in popularity that had contributed to the closures. I’d explored the Grampians with a guidebook and a sense of wonder, following goat tracks, searching for the glint of bolts. As I reached and clipped, moved and steadied, I thought: This. This is what it means to be alive.
Like many climbers, I hadn’t thought to educate myself about the region’s Indigenous history. More than once, I’d hurried past Gariwerd’s caged art sites to get on the rock. But I soon became fascinated with the bans and the new park management plan process that followed, which was a collaboration between Parks Victoria and Gariwerd’s Traditional Owners. As a New Zealander whose partner and son are Indigenous (Ngai Tahu Maori), protecting cultural values in Gariwerd seemed wholly reasonable, as did positioning the conflict within the wider context of strengthening relations with Aboriginal Australians. I agreed with outgoing VCC president Paula Toal when she said: “We are all going on a journey of reconciliation”. But there wasn’t much oxygen afforded to such views initially.
***
|
|
In October 2020, legendary first ascentionists Glenn Tempest and Kevin Lindorff did what many had been threatening to do – they launched legal action against Parks Victoria over the bans, indemnified by the VCC. The pair had been climbing in the Grampians for more than 50 years. As teenagers, they’d formed a formidable partnership – Lindorff strong on delicate, run-out routes, Tempest on pumpy overhangs.
Lindorff was the president of the VCC, Tempest the founder and publisher of Open Spaces climbing and hiking guidebooks. Both lived an hour from the park in the small town of Natimuk – near trad mecca Mount Arapiles/Dyurrite, also subject to closures – where many in the town made their income from guiding. The uncertainty around the bans had caused ongoing anxiety, amplified by the Covid pandemic.
The move came after 18 months of fighting the bans unsuccessfully through official channels. The blanket bans were lazy management, Lindorff had argued; a more nuanced approach was needed that both protected cultural heritage and the environment, and permitted climbing.
“Climbing has been banned from hundreds of crags on a so-called precautionary principle,” Lindorff said, “with no timeline attached to the assessment process.”
A month after Tempest and Lindorff took legal action, I spent the day walking with them in the Grampians. I was keen to better understand climber history in the area, and why the men felt so strongly about their right to climb they were prepared to go to court over it.
It was the first time I’d met Tempest. He got out of the car wearing a faded climbing t-shirt from Phra Nang, Thailand. “I almost didn’t wear it,” he said.
It had come to this: climbers feeling stigmatised for what had, until recently, been just a fringe past-time. In Tempest’s case, his life’s work was impacted. Publication of his latest guidebooks had been halted. It was no coincidence the same people who had opened up the landscape for the rest of us were again leading the charge. The closures threatened their identities, had the potential to turn them from legends into pariahs in the public eye, undoing their considerable contribution to the climbing community.
Tempest had suggested walking the Stapylton Loop Track, a 12-kilometre circuit that took in contested areas Summerday Valley, Hollow Mountain Cave, and Taipan Wall. Our first stop was Summerday Valley, once, arguably, the best beginner trad area in the state. Its shadowy grottos had been popular with families and climbing clubs passing on their skills; like many, I’d learnt to trad climb there.
Lindorff was the president of the VCC, Tempest the founder and publisher of Open Spaces climbing and hiking guidebooks. Both lived an hour from the park in the small town of Natimuk – near trad mecca Mount Arapiles/Dyurrite, also subject to closures – where many in the town made their income from guiding. The uncertainty around the bans had caused ongoing anxiety, amplified by the Covid pandemic.
The move came after 18 months of fighting the bans unsuccessfully through official channels. The blanket bans were lazy management, Lindorff had argued; a more nuanced approach was needed that both protected cultural heritage and the environment, and permitted climbing.
“Climbing has been banned from hundreds of crags on a so-called precautionary principle,” Lindorff said, “with no timeline attached to the assessment process.”
A month after Tempest and Lindorff took legal action, I spent the day walking with them in the Grampians. I was keen to better understand climber history in the area, and why the men felt so strongly about their right to climb they were prepared to go to court over it.
It was the first time I’d met Tempest. He got out of the car wearing a faded climbing t-shirt from Phra Nang, Thailand. “I almost didn’t wear it,” he said.
It had come to this: climbers feeling stigmatised for what had, until recently, been just a fringe past-time. In Tempest’s case, his life’s work was impacted. Publication of his latest guidebooks had been halted. It was no coincidence the same people who had opened up the landscape for the rest of us were again leading the charge. The closures threatened their identities, had the potential to turn them from legends into pariahs in the public eye, undoing their considerable contribution to the climbing community.
Tempest had suggested walking the Stapylton Loop Track, a 12-kilometre circuit that took in contested areas Summerday Valley, Hollow Mountain Cave, and Taipan Wall. Our first stop was Summerday Valley, once, arguably, the best beginner trad area in the state. Its shadowy grottos had been popular with families and climbing clubs passing on their skills; like many, I’d learnt to trad climb there.
We took the boardwalk to the Back Wall, near one of the valley’s most popular trad lines, Overkill (17/5.9), put up by Lindorff and his brother as teenagers in 1983. Climbers used to queue to get on it. Today, there was just us looking on.
Summerday Valley is now closed to all but Licensed Tour Operators, who must undergo a cultural heritage induction. The shift has been seen by some climbers as proof of commercialisation, rather than cultural heritage protection; others acknowledge Gariwerd’s Traditional Owners’ generosity in allowing access to guided parties, such as school groups, so that beginner climbing can continue.
Lindorff and Tempest reminisced about weekends when they’d hitch-hiked from Melbourne, had the place to themselves and camped out under the stars. “Back then you could just drive up to the base of the rock,” Lindorff said of the nearby cliffs.
We continued along the tourist track to Hollow Mountain/Wudjub‐guyun, one of the most trafficked short walks in the Grampians – rocky, undulating, with a last-minute scramble to Hollow Mountain Cave. It used to be popular with boulderers climbing above a V7, and is home to the formidable V15 link-up Wheel of Life.
Summerday Valley is now closed to all but Licensed Tour Operators, who must undergo a cultural heritage induction. The shift has been seen by some climbers as proof of commercialisation, rather than cultural heritage protection; others acknowledge Gariwerd’s Traditional Owners’ generosity in allowing access to guided parties, such as school groups, so that beginner climbing can continue.
Lindorff and Tempest reminisced about weekends when they’d hitch-hiked from Melbourne, had the place to themselves and camped out under the stars. “Back then you could just drive up to the base of the rock,” Lindorff said of the nearby cliffs.
We continued along the tourist track to Hollow Mountain/Wudjub‐guyun, one of the most trafficked short walks in the Grampians – rocky, undulating, with a last-minute scramble to Hollow Mountain Cave. It used to be popular with boulderers climbing above a V7, and is home to the formidable V15 link-up Wheel of Life.
Near the entrance to the cave, Tempest pointed out evidence of quarrying – and of graffiti. A rib of rock was missing its edge, a sign of having been quarried for tools. Alongside, someone had scrawled a bunch of stick figures in white chalk – a derogatory imitation of rock art.
The cave was closed to climbers in 2019, but, contentiously, kept open to hikers. I’d hiked there myself several times since, scrambling to the upper level to enjoy the airy views. It had been spraypainted with graffiti and was crawling with hikers, awed by their surrounds – and their ability to scale them. Under the new park management plan, released in December 2021, hikers are no longer permitted to walk off track in culturally sensitive areas, but this hasn’t kept them out of the cave.
Tempest spoke of hypocrisy and double standards. “Climbers have been unfairly singled out,” he said. “It has less to do with genuine cultural heritage concerns than it has to do with keeping open a signature walking trail for tourist walkers.”
From a cultural values perspective, the decision to keep Hollow Mountain Cave open is baffling. When quizzed about it in community engagement sessions, Parks Victoria’s staff reiterated the land manager’s mandate to protect all cultural values from all park users. Later, when I put it to Parks Victoria’s Regional Director Western Jason Borg, he said you needed to trust park users to do the right thing. “It’s just about striking the balance for protection and enjoyment,” he told me, a response I found less than satisfactory at the time.
However, perhaps striking a balance is exactly what it’s about. It is one thing to ban climbers, a relatively small user group. It would be quite another to ban bushwalkers. Most likely, in the decision-making process between Parks Victoria and Gariwerd’s Traditional Owners, compromises needed to be made. But this is mere conjecture on my part. The issue has been complicated by climbers feeling powerless after years unbridled access. Central to the issue is whether you believe access is a right or a privilege.
As Tempest, Lindorff, and I scrambled towards the summit of Mt. Staplyton/Ginigalg, Tempest told me Parks Victoria had twice threatened to sue him: once, over the unofficial track to The Gallery in the 1990s, where he was route developing (the track was later formalised by Parks Victoria), then over inclusion of the very track we were walking in a book on day trips to be published by Australian Geographic, because of its exposed terrain.
According to the men, the bans were an attempt by Parks Victoria to reduce management responsibilities and commercialise national parks. This included ridding parks of self-sufficient "dirt bag" climbers, who weren’t interested in paying for guided tours or glamping. This narrative would gain so much traction the VCC commissioned a report into the financial benefit of climbing to the region, estimating it at AU$11.9 million in the Grampians alone.
The cave was closed to climbers in 2019, but, contentiously, kept open to hikers. I’d hiked there myself several times since, scrambling to the upper level to enjoy the airy views. It had been spraypainted with graffiti and was crawling with hikers, awed by their surrounds – and their ability to scale them. Under the new park management plan, released in December 2021, hikers are no longer permitted to walk off track in culturally sensitive areas, but this hasn’t kept them out of the cave.
Tempest spoke of hypocrisy and double standards. “Climbers have been unfairly singled out,” he said. “It has less to do with genuine cultural heritage concerns than it has to do with keeping open a signature walking trail for tourist walkers.”
From a cultural values perspective, the decision to keep Hollow Mountain Cave open is baffling. When quizzed about it in community engagement sessions, Parks Victoria’s staff reiterated the land manager’s mandate to protect all cultural values from all park users. Later, when I put it to Parks Victoria’s Regional Director Western Jason Borg, he said you needed to trust park users to do the right thing. “It’s just about striking the balance for protection and enjoyment,” he told me, a response I found less than satisfactory at the time.
However, perhaps striking a balance is exactly what it’s about. It is one thing to ban climbers, a relatively small user group. It would be quite another to ban bushwalkers. Most likely, in the decision-making process between Parks Victoria and Gariwerd’s Traditional Owners, compromises needed to be made. But this is mere conjecture on my part. The issue has been complicated by climbers feeling powerless after years unbridled access. Central to the issue is whether you believe access is a right or a privilege.
As Tempest, Lindorff, and I scrambled towards the summit of Mt. Staplyton/Ginigalg, Tempest told me Parks Victoria had twice threatened to sue him: once, over the unofficial track to The Gallery in the 1990s, where he was route developing (the track was later formalised by Parks Victoria), then over inclusion of the very track we were walking in a book on day trips to be published by Australian Geographic, because of its exposed terrain.
According to the men, the bans were an attempt by Parks Victoria to reduce management responsibilities and commercialise national parks. This included ridding parks of self-sufficient "dirt bag" climbers, who weren’t interested in paying for guided tours or glamping. This narrative would gain so much traction the VCC commissioned a report into the financial benefit of climbing to the region, estimating it at AU$11.9 million in the Grampians alone.
|
|
Above: Click on photos to enlarge. (Photo Credit: Francesco Vicenzi)
Lindorff and Tempest resented the defunding of national parks and their commodification to meet Key Performance Indicators, the result of state government reforms in the 1990s. Nor were they in favour of walkers being funnelled into the new Grampians Peaks Trail, with its $48 per night camping platforms, while dispersed or "wild" camping was phased out under the new park management plan. And they scorned the boardwalks installed at places like the Wonderland, where tourists could mindlessly amble from their cars to the lookout and back again. These "front country" structures were costly and unsightly, they believed, and leached money from existing "back country" tracks. They were also far more damaging to the environment than the occasional bolt drilled into the rock.
Towards the end of the day, we strolled down into Staplyton Amphitheatre where, at its highest point, the tiered cliff-line of Taipan Wall shone like a sheet of bronze in the sunlight. Taipan has been a drawcard for the world’s top professionals, with Chris Sharma and Paige Claason sending its hardest line, Groove Train (grade 33/5.14b). Tempest and Lindorff had put up the first free ascent on the wall in 1977, Atomic Tadpole, (grade 20/5.10c). In August 2020, Taipan had been struck off. We stared up at it from the still-open Lower Taipan.
Towards the end of the day, we strolled down into Staplyton Amphitheatre where, at its highest point, the tiered cliff-line of Taipan Wall shone like a sheet of bronze in the sunlight. Taipan has been a drawcard for the world’s top professionals, with Chris Sharma and Paige Claason sending its hardest line, Groove Train (grade 33/5.14b). Tempest and Lindorff had put up the first free ascent on the wall in 1977, Atomic Tadpole, (grade 20/5.10c). In August 2020, Taipan had been struck off. We stared up at it from the still-open Lower Taipan.
"Gilgamesh!" Glenn exclaimed, pointing up at a thin corner line on Lower Taipan. "Remember when Malcolm was working it? He got it down to just one rest. He almost had it."
Malcolm Matheson, a local, had worked the 67-metre, grade 31 (5.13d) trad climb repeatedly in the nineties before concluding he needed to get stronger. He never went back; the route was eventually freed in 2008.
Lindorff didn’t reply. Tempest glanced across to find him squinting thoughtfully at another section of the wall. Tempest laughed. "I know him so well. Look at him! He’s looking for a new line."
Lindorff chucked, acknowledging it was so. It was evidence of a fifty-year friendship – and of an earlier, much less-complicated era, at least for climbers.
As we turned back towards Hollow Mountain car park, I felt conflicted. The men had been generous guides and there was much I admired about them. But resting the blame solely with Parks Victoria felt disingenuous, regardless of how flawed the land manager’s handling of the situation was, how poor its organisational memory.
Perhaps an anti-Parks response can be better understood within the context of climbing’s counter-cultural history, which dates back to the Vietnam War era in the U.S., when climbers set up camp at Yosemite and shunned conscription – and the authority of parks staff – to test themselves against the rock. The U.S. scene has strongly influenced the Australian one, while films like Valley Uprising have stoked the discord. Again, it comes down to whether or not you agree with the rules – and who gets to make them.
In the Grampians, crag development, bolting, and chalk use have been contentious issues for more than 20 years, ever since the development of park management plans. As early as 2007, the next generation of crag developers were warned by CliffCare’s Access and Environment Officer Tracey Skinner that the future of climbing in the Grampians could be impacted by unauthorised development, now the Aboriginal Heritage Act (2006) had come into force. The act provided a range of provisions to better protect Aboriginal cultural heritage in Victoria. Back issues of Argus show developers were aware of these conversations, while documents obtained under the Freedom of Information Act show two incidents of bolting close to rock art in the Victoria Range in 2016 were a catalyst for the bans.
Commercialisation of national parks is a legitimate concern in Australia, covered by Wild magazine’s James McCormack. It’s a reality in Gariwerd - but it shouldn’t be confused with Gariwerd Traditional Owners introducing ways of sustaining both their people and their land. Nor should it be confused with the need to protect cultural values. In Gariwerd, there are 474 registered Aboriginal places, 132 of them rock art sites – and comparatively little private development to date. Dismissing the protection of cultural values as the primary reason for the bans is a slippery slope, because it downplays Indigenous rights.
Malcolm Matheson, a local, had worked the 67-metre, grade 31 (5.13d) trad climb repeatedly in the nineties before concluding he needed to get stronger. He never went back; the route was eventually freed in 2008.
Lindorff didn’t reply. Tempest glanced across to find him squinting thoughtfully at another section of the wall. Tempest laughed. "I know him so well. Look at him! He’s looking for a new line."
Lindorff chucked, acknowledging it was so. It was evidence of a fifty-year friendship – and of an earlier, much less-complicated era, at least for climbers.
As we turned back towards Hollow Mountain car park, I felt conflicted. The men had been generous guides and there was much I admired about them. But resting the blame solely with Parks Victoria felt disingenuous, regardless of how flawed the land manager’s handling of the situation was, how poor its organisational memory.
Perhaps an anti-Parks response can be better understood within the context of climbing’s counter-cultural history, which dates back to the Vietnam War era in the U.S., when climbers set up camp at Yosemite and shunned conscription – and the authority of parks staff – to test themselves against the rock. The U.S. scene has strongly influenced the Australian one, while films like Valley Uprising have stoked the discord. Again, it comes down to whether or not you agree with the rules – and who gets to make them.
In the Grampians, crag development, bolting, and chalk use have been contentious issues for more than 20 years, ever since the development of park management plans. As early as 2007, the next generation of crag developers were warned by CliffCare’s Access and Environment Officer Tracey Skinner that the future of climbing in the Grampians could be impacted by unauthorised development, now the Aboriginal Heritage Act (2006) had come into force. The act provided a range of provisions to better protect Aboriginal cultural heritage in Victoria. Back issues of Argus show developers were aware of these conversations, while documents obtained under the Freedom of Information Act show two incidents of bolting close to rock art in the Victoria Range in 2016 were a catalyst for the bans.
Commercialisation of national parks is a legitimate concern in Australia, covered by Wild magazine’s James McCormack. It’s a reality in Gariwerd - but it shouldn’t be confused with Gariwerd Traditional Owners introducing ways of sustaining both their people and their land. Nor should it be confused with the need to protect cultural values. In Gariwerd, there are 474 registered Aboriginal places, 132 of them rock art sites – and comparatively little private development to date. Dismissing the protection of cultural values as the primary reason for the bans is a slippery slope, because it downplays Indigenous rights.
***
Until recently, it was possible for climbers to go to the Grampians’ most far-flung places and not see another person for days. Try and describe these places and words like “wilderness” come to mind – rugged tracts of awe-inspiring beauty, untamed and unpeopled, preserved for our enjoyment. Or, as William Cronon wrote of wilderness: “An island in the polluted sea of urban-industrial modernity, the one place we can turn to escape from our own too-muchness.”
Going back to the Romantics, this ideology has formed the basis of the national park movement. Primitivism – anti-modernity – has also played a part in how we iconise these landscapes, according to Cronon, with wilderness “the last bastion of rugged individualism” – frontier country where “men” can go and prove themselves.
But wilderness and national parks are cultural constructs, both only a few hundred years old. Increasingly, recreational users are being asked to consider these landscapes in a new light: not as wild, but as stolen. Because the creation of national parks, including Yellowstone – the first, in 1872 – has displaced Indigenous people the world over. And viewing these landscapes as empty and uncared for has long been a justification for land theft.
More than once, researching this story, life-long climbers told me they’d never seen an Aboriginal person at Gariwerd or Dyurrite – as if this somehow lessened Indigenous claims. What it actually does is show just how successful colonisation has been at removing Traditional Owners from their land.
In 1836, the New South Wales surveyor general Major Thomas Mitchell and his expedition were the first Europeans to pass through the territory of the Djab Wurrung and the Jardwadjali. Mitchell would climb and name the distinctive peak Mount Abrupt – already known as Mud-dadjug – and the rugged ranges stretching before him “the Grampians” as they reminded him of their namesake in Scotland, even though the area already had a name – Gariwerd (Gar, meaning nose, and werd shoulder).
Going back to the Romantics, this ideology has formed the basis of the national park movement. Primitivism – anti-modernity – has also played a part in how we iconise these landscapes, according to Cronon, with wilderness “the last bastion of rugged individualism” – frontier country where “men” can go and prove themselves.
But wilderness and national parks are cultural constructs, both only a few hundred years old. Increasingly, recreational users are being asked to consider these landscapes in a new light: not as wild, but as stolen. Because the creation of national parks, including Yellowstone – the first, in 1872 – has displaced Indigenous people the world over. And viewing these landscapes as empty and uncared for has long been a justification for land theft.
More than once, researching this story, life-long climbers told me they’d never seen an Aboriginal person at Gariwerd or Dyurrite – as if this somehow lessened Indigenous claims. What it actually does is show just how successful colonisation has been at removing Traditional Owners from their land.
In 1836, the New South Wales surveyor general Major Thomas Mitchell and his expedition were the first Europeans to pass through the territory of the Djab Wurrung and the Jardwadjali. Mitchell would climb and name the distinctive peak Mount Abrupt – already known as Mud-dadjug – and the rugged ranges stretching before him “the Grampians” as they reminded him of their namesake in Scotland, even though the area already had a name – Gariwerd (Gar, meaning nose, and werd shoulder).
Before the flood of squatters and their sheep that flowed in Mitchell’s wake, the Djab Wurrung and the Jardwadjali occupied distinct territories. There were six seasons, and they returned to the same places each year to make the most of seasonal food sources, hunting, trapping, and gathering. The land was the source of sustenance, sustainably managed with controlled burns and tracked with oral stories or song lines. As custodians, they drew on laws, knowledge and customs inherited from ancestors to Care for Country. They, and their forebearers, had occupied it for more than 22,000 years.
By 1840, over half of Djab Wurrung and Jardwadjali land had been taken over by squatters. By 1845, an estimated 70 percent of the Djab Wurrung and 80 percent of the Jardwadjli were dead – from rifle attack, introduced diseases, poisoning, and starvation. By the 1870s, those who were still alive were forcibly removed onto reserves, where their language, culture, and customs continued to be erased. This made fulfilling their responsibility to Care for Country incredibly difficult. And in their absence, parts of Gariwerd were mined, logged and farmed before it became a national park in 1984.
So is Gariwerd “wilderness”? In 2021, ABC journalist Jo Khan posed the question: Is it time to stop using the term? Wiradjuri scientist Michael Fletcher, a palaeoecologist and geographer at the University of Melbourne, said yes. “Globally, many places that are called ‘wilderness’ are either currently home to Indigenous people who actively manage the landscape, or are former landscapes which Indigenous people were the managers of, and are still trying to get recognition and agency back into their territories,” Fletcher said.
This is true of Gariwerd.
By 1840, over half of Djab Wurrung and Jardwadjali land had been taken over by squatters. By 1845, an estimated 70 percent of the Djab Wurrung and 80 percent of the Jardwadjli were dead – from rifle attack, introduced diseases, poisoning, and starvation. By the 1870s, those who were still alive were forcibly removed onto reserves, where their language, culture, and customs continued to be erased. This made fulfilling their responsibility to Care for Country incredibly difficult. And in their absence, parts of Gariwerd were mined, logged and farmed before it became a national park in 1984.
So is Gariwerd “wilderness”? In 2021, ABC journalist Jo Khan posed the question: Is it time to stop using the term? Wiradjuri scientist Michael Fletcher, a palaeoecologist and geographer at the University of Melbourne, said yes. “Globally, many places that are called ‘wilderness’ are either currently home to Indigenous people who actively manage the landscape, or are former landscapes which Indigenous people were the managers of, and are still trying to get recognition and agency back into their territories,” Fletcher said.
This is true of Gariwerd.
***
Since colonisation, Gariwerd Traditional Owners (GTOs) have fought a 200-year battle to have their land returned and their rights recognised. While we’ve had the freedom to devote ourselves to climbing, this has been their leaders’ life’s work. Generations have passed without seeing real progress.
When the bans came into place, climbing in the majority of those areas was already prohibited by the park management plan (2003). But instead of enforcing this, Parks Victoria had worked with climbing groups such as the VCC to improve access to crags, including Summerday Valley, the Gallery and Taipan Wall. Such were wider society’s priorities at the time.
But growing support for Indigenous rights in Australia and the election of a sympathetic state government, led to a raft of legislative changes – several from 2018, the year before the bans were enacted. This ensured GTO rights and responsibilities were now being recognised. The changes included a commitment by the state government to sign a treaty with Indigenous peoples.
For Gariwerd, an Indigenous Land Use Agreement, signed between GTOs and the state, ensures native title cannot be extinguished and responsibilities to protect cultural heritage are upheld: Parks Victoria now risks significant fines should it fail to protect cultural heritage on the land it manages. Ten weeks after this agreement was signed, the climbing bans came into force.
Since then, Parks Victoria has developed a Managing Country Together framework, which recognises Traditional Owners as knowledge holders.
The new park management plan represents a shift towards co-management of Gariwerd, acknowledging that for more than 22,000 years, it has been the “living, hunting, gathering, cultivating, ceremonial, Dreaming Country and territory of Jadawadjali and Djab Wurrung language groups and their ancestors”.
The plan has been co-authored with the three body corporates that represent the rights and interests of GTO’s – Barengi Gadjin Land Council, Eastern Maar Aboriginal Corporation, and Gunditj Mirring Traditional Owner Aboriginal Corporation. GTOs are key partners in decision-making, and their aspirations for the park are central. These include recognising the land’s spiritual significance, reintroducing traditional fire management practices, and prioritising cultural tourism.
The push to protect cultural values in Gariwerd is not new. In the last decade, as climber numbers have grown and route development continued, GTOs have become increasingly concerned for the future of their irreplaceable cultural values. Finally, they’re in a position to do something about it.
When the bans came into place, climbing in the majority of those areas was already prohibited by the park management plan (2003). But instead of enforcing this, Parks Victoria had worked with climbing groups such as the VCC to improve access to crags, including Summerday Valley, the Gallery and Taipan Wall. Such were wider society’s priorities at the time.
But growing support for Indigenous rights in Australia and the election of a sympathetic state government, led to a raft of legislative changes – several from 2018, the year before the bans were enacted. This ensured GTO rights and responsibilities were now being recognised. The changes included a commitment by the state government to sign a treaty with Indigenous peoples.
For Gariwerd, an Indigenous Land Use Agreement, signed between GTOs and the state, ensures native title cannot be extinguished and responsibilities to protect cultural heritage are upheld: Parks Victoria now risks significant fines should it fail to protect cultural heritage on the land it manages. Ten weeks after this agreement was signed, the climbing bans came into force.
Since then, Parks Victoria has developed a Managing Country Together framework, which recognises Traditional Owners as knowledge holders.
The new park management plan represents a shift towards co-management of Gariwerd, acknowledging that for more than 22,000 years, it has been the “living, hunting, gathering, cultivating, ceremonial, Dreaming Country and territory of Jadawadjali and Djab Wurrung language groups and their ancestors”.
The plan has been co-authored with the three body corporates that represent the rights and interests of GTO’s – Barengi Gadjin Land Council, Eastern Maar Aboriginal Corporation, and Gunditj Mirring Traditional Owner Aboriginal Corporation. GTOs are key partners in decision-making, and their aspirations for the park are central. These include recognising the land’s spiritual significance, reintroducing traditional fire management practices, and prioritising cultural tourism.
The push to protect cultural values in Gariwerd is not new. In the last decade, as climber numbers have grown and route development continued, GTOs have become increasingly concerned for the future of their irreplaceable cultural values. Finally, they’re in a position to do something about it.
***
|
|
In the wake of the bans, climbers talked at length about their desire to meet with Gariwerd’s Traditional Owners. The issue was framed as a misunderstanding: if climbing reps could simply explain how the sport worked, GTOs would understand why climbing and cultural values could, and should, co-exist. Bolts, they argued, were barely visible. Chalk could simply be brushed off. Climbers saw themselves as good environmental stewards – natural allies of Indigenous peoples, even – and just needed the opportunity to make their case. They grew frustrated, and then critical of GTOs, when such requests to meet were refused.
The more I thought about it, the more I thought climbers didn’t grasp what their requests implied: that despite decades of opposing climbing in parts of Gariwerd, GTOs were ignorant, and just needed to be set straight. This suggested a profound disregard for GTOs’ legal right to self-determination: to decide what was best for themselves, their people and their land. It also continued the colonial legacy of dismissing Indigenous viewpoints as inferior.
In response to the requests to meet, Parks Victoria stressed the importance of creating a safe space – and that included respecting the park management plan process, which GTOs had publicly expressed their support for. As Lindorff has said, it’s been difficult to criticise the plan process without coming off as racist. But this wasn’t helped by a handful of highly vocal climbers showing themselves to be just that, disrespecting GTOs in person and online, attempting to derail the plan process, and posting inflammatory comments on social media. We will never know how much goodwill this eroded, just as we will never know the harm it caused GTOs. Similarly, while the legal action by Tempest and Lindorff would later be dropped, GTOs saw it as a direct challenge to their rights and responsibilities to Care for Country.
Barengi Gadjin Land Council has also said: “When Traditional Owners see visitors trampling over ceremony sites or artifact scatters, or see climbing bolts drilled into the bones of our Creation Ancestors or around our rock art, it is a cause of enormous distress. This distress has a direct impact on the health and wellbeing of Traditional Owners and affects our very place within the Creation (Dreaming) Cycle of our spirituality in a way that is beyond full understanding within conventional Western thought.”
In an attempt to further my own understanding, I walked into several key sites. Lil Lil and Burrunj both had new routes bolted close to rock art in the lead-up to the bans, despite publicised requests from Parks Victoria to CliffCare for crag development to cease in the Grampians. At Lil Lil and Burrunj, it wasn’t difficult to see the problem.
But at the Gallery – a spectacularly overhung precipice high above the Victoria Range/Billawin, home to hard sport routes, and an ancient quarry site – I struggled to understand the significance of quarrying. I felt a pang of loss for these remarkable climbs that future generations would never get to experience. But my level of understanding wasn’t the point. As would become clear, acknowledging and respecting GTO rights, listening, learning, and being prepared to work together would be essential to both reconciliation and the future of climbing.
In late 2019, a group of climbers founded the Gariwerd Wimmera Reconciliation Network (GWRN), recognising the critical need to form lasting relationships with GTOs. GWRN would be invited to take part in the cultural and environmental heritage assessment process, and would be instrumental in getting the lefthand side of Taipan Wall reopened in December 2022.
In their January newsletter, they said: “We hope this is a positive example of how we can work together toward an outcome which supports protection of cultural heritage and at the same time, where possible, allowing recreational users to enjoy these beautiful spaces. There is a great deal of good will and trust now being placed in the hands of climbers and we are hopeful the climbing community will honour that trust.”
Trust has proved paramount, as has taken a long view. Climbers have been waiting just a handful of years for some kind of resolution. GTOs have been waiting for more than two hundred.
The more I thought about it, the more I thought climbers didn’t grasp what their requests implied: that despite decades of opposing climbing in parts of Gariwerd, GTOs were ignorant, and just needed to be set straight. This suggested a profound disregard for GTOs’ legal right to self-determination: to decide what was best for themselves, their people and their land. It also continued the colonial legacy of dismissing Indigenous viewpoints as inferior.
In response to the requests to meet, Parks Victoria stressed the importance of creating a safe space – and that included respecting the park management plan process, which GTOs had publicly expressed their support for. As Lindorff has said, it’s been difficult to criticise the plan process without coming off as racist. But this wasn’t helped by a handful of highly vocal climbers showing themselves to be just that, disrespecting GTOs in person and online, attempting to derail the plan process, and posting inflammatory comments on social media. We will never know how much goodwill this eroded, just as we will never know the harm it caused GTOs. Similarly, while the legal action by Tempest and Lindorff would later be dropped, GTOs saw it as a direct challenge to their rights and responsibilities to Care for Country.
Barengi Gadjin Land Council has also said: “When Traditional Owners see visitors trampling over ceremony sites or artifact scatters, or see climbing bolts drilled into the bones of our Creation Ancestors or around our rock art, it is a cause of enormous distress. This distress has a direct impact on the health and wellbeing of Traditional Owners and affects our very place within the Creation (Dreaming) Cycle of our spirituality in a way that is beyond full understanding within conventional Western thought.”
In an attempt to further my own understanding, I walked into several key sites. Lil Lil and Burrunj both had new routes bolted close to rock art in the lead-up to the bans, despite publicised requests from Parks Victoria to CliffCare for crag development to cease in the Grampians. At Lil Lil and Burrunj, it wasn’t difficult to see the problem.
But at the Gallery – a spectacularly overhung precipice high above the Victoria Range/Billawin, home to hard sport routes, and an ancient quarry site – I struggled to understand the significance of quarrying. I felt a pang of loss for these remarkable climbs that future generations would never get to experience. But my level of understanding wasn’t the point. As would become clear, acknowledging and respecting GTO rights, listening, learning, and being prepared to work together would be essential to both reconciliation and the future of climbing.
In late 2019, a group of climbers founded the Gariwerd Wimmera Reconciliation Network (GWRN), recognising the critical need to form lasting relationships with GTOs. GWRN would be invited to take part in the cultural and environmental heritage assessment process, and would be instrumental in getting the lefthand side of Taipan Wall reopened in December 2022.
In their January newsletter, they said: “We hope this is a positive example of how we can work together toward an outcome which supports protection of cultural heritage and at the same time, where possible, allowing recreational users to enjoy these beautiful spaces. There is a great deal of good will and trust now being placed in the hands of climbers and we are hopeful the climbing community will honour that trust.”
Trust has proved paramount, as has taken a long view. Climbers have been waiting just a handful of years for some kind of resolution. GTOs have been waiting for more than two hundred.
***
Since 2019, climbing in Gariwerd has changed irrevocably. No longer are some areas of the park closed to climbing; all areas are now off-limits, unless specified as open. More than 200 crags remain closed, with little chance of assessment for the presence of cultural values being carried out. Thanks to climber advocacy, funding has been secured for Parks Victoria and GTOs to assess 50 priority crags by mid-2023. However, timelines have proven hazy: at nearby Dyurrite, which is far more accessible, climbers are still waiting for the outcome of cultural heritage assessments, originally due in mid-2022. There is concern this flipped approach to climbing in Gariwerd will become the norm in other national parks across the state.
As a result of the new park management plan, climbing permits will be required, chalk must match the colour of the rock, and bolting is permitted in open areas. A new peak body for climbers in Victoria has been formed, giving voice to the state’s major climbing organisations and providing a single point of contact. Climbing clubs are formulating Reconciliation Action Plans, and understanding of Indigenous history in the places we climb – and across Australia more broadly – is growing. The toxic narrative on social media has largely died down. The question of whether Australia needs an Access Fund or trust, similar to the U.S. or New Zealand, remains on the table.
There is undeniably more awareness and acceptance of Indigenous rights than there was four years ago, and more climber voices coming out in support of them. As Australia continues towards reconciliation, hopefully others can learn from the conflict our community has been at the forefront of – and can prioritise respectful engagement. The shifting nature of national parks, of what we grew up knowing as “public land," is likely to continue for years to come. After all, the conservation estate is the only land available to give back; no politician would propose returning private property. And if now is not the time for reconciliation, then when?
As former-editors of Vertical Life climbing magazine Simon Madden and Ross Taylor astutely observed back in August 2019: “The era of going solo is finished. It’s a loss, but also an opportunity to create a sustainable future for climbing, one that’s more educated and inclusive of the environment and the unique cultural history that spans more than 60,000 years.”
What this looks like continues to take shape – and falls to all of us to take responsibility for.
As a result of the new park management plan, climbing permits will be required, chalk must match the colour of the rock, and bolting is permitted in open areas. A new peak body for climbers in Victoria has been formed, giving voice to the state’s major climbing organisations and providing a single point of contact. Climbing clubs are formulating Reconciliation Action Plans, and understanding of Indigenous history in the places we climb – and across Australia more broadly – is growing. The toxic narrative on social media has largely died down. The question of whether Australia needs an Access Fund or trust, similar to the U.S. or New Zealand, remains on the table.
There is undeniably more awareness and acceptance of Indigenous rights than there was four years ago, and more climber voices coming out in support of them. As Australia continues towards reconciliation, hopefully others can learn from the conflict our community has been at the forefront of – and can prioritise respectful engagement. The shifting nature of national parks, of what we grew up knowing as “public land," is likely to continue for years to come. After all, the conservation estate is the only land available to give back; no politician would propose returning private property. And if now is not the time for reconciliation, then when?
As former-editors of Vertical Life climbing magazine Simon Madden and Ross Taylor astutely observed back in August 2019: “The era of going solo is finished. It’s a loss, but also an opportunity to create a sustainable future for climbing, one that’s more educated and inclusive of the environment and the unique cultural history that spans more than 60,000 years.”
What this looks like continues to take shape – and falls to all of us to take responsibility for.
Above: Click on photos to enlarge. (Photo Credit: Francesco Vicenzi)
Leigh Hopkinson is a regular contributor to Wilderness magazine (New Zealand) and has written about the intersection of climbing and cultural values in Gariwerd for Australian Geographic. She was editor of the Victoria Climbing Club (VCC) Argus from 2019-2021.