The Pinnacle's Perfect Finale

Leaving the Heatherlie Quarry's ghostly remnants behind, we retraced our morning path past Plantation Campground, the pines still standing in their regimented rows like patient soldiers. Halls Gap beckoned us back briefly before we turned our faces upward, ready to ascend into the true heart of the Grampians rather than merely dancing around its edges. Anth's research had unearthed two gems perfectly suited to our compressed timeline: Reids Lookout and the Balconies Track, both promising maximum reward for minimal time investment—a calculation that had become crucial in our newly abbreviated schedule.

The road began its sinuous climb, each switchback lifting us further from the valley floor. Though these heights couldn't rival Tasmania's dramatic elevations, the ascent felt significant after weeks of rolling through Victoria's gentler topographies. Our bus engine hummed with effort as we wound higher, the landscape transforming with each gained metre, civilisation falling away below us like a discarded cloak.

Reids Lookout materialised as promised, and we joined the brief pilgrimage from car park to viewing platform. The forest observation tower rose first, a skeletal structure of stairs and platforms that lifted us above the canopy line. But it was Reids Lookout proper that stole our breath—the entire Grampians range spread before us in magnificent panorama, ancient sandstone peaks catching afternoon light like frozen waves of rock. These mountains wore their age with dignity, their weathered faces telling stories of geological epochs we could barely fathom.

The two-kilometre Balconies Track called us onward, a gentle loop that promised another perspective on this vertical landscape. We set off with easy strides, but halfway through, the character of the bush changed dramatically. Here, the recent fires had left their calling card with devastating clarity. Just six months earlier, these slopes had been an inferno, and the evidence surrounded us—blackened trunks reaching skyward like charcoal sketches against the sky, the understory beginning its tentative regeneration in brilliant green shoots. The contrast was heartbreaking and hopeful in equal measure.

At the Balconies Lookout itself, we could trace the fire's path across the landscape below—a patchwork of destruction and recovery painting the valleys in shades of black, brown, and emerging green. The stone platform jutted out into space, offering views that made the tragedy tangible. These fires had consumed most of the Grampians, we'd been seeing their signatures everywhere, but here the scale became visceral, the scarred earth telling its story of fury and renewal.

We returned to the bus as the sun began its descent, painting the sandstone cliffs in shades of honey and amber. Without discussion, we found ourselves walking back to Reids Lookout, drawn by some magnetic pull to witness the day's end from that spectacular vantage. This time we weren't alone—a small congregation of sunset seekers had gathered, all of us falling into reverential silence as the sun performed its daily alchemy. The landscape transformed moment by moment, shadows deepening in the valleys while peaks glowed like embers, the whole world seeming to hold its breath in that golden hour.

As the last day-trippers departed, leaving exhaust fumes and silence in their wake, we made the decision that felt both rebellious and perfectly natural—we would stay. Our footprint was always zero, we carried everything we needed, and this spot deserved more than a fleeting visit. The carpark became our bedroom, the stars our ceiling, the ancient mountains our guardians through the night.

The wind arrived after midnight, a wild visitor that set our bus rocking in its grip. Rather than disturbing our sleep, it became a lullaby of sorts—the vehicle swaying like a boat at anchor, the sound of air rushing past creating white noise that merged with our dreams. We were cradled between earth and sky, rocked by the same winds that had sculpted these mountains over millennia.

Morning dawned crisp and still, the wind having blown itself out in the small hours. We descended from our aerie, following the serpentine road down to Mackenzies Flat and the Wonderland car park—a name that promised magic and a launching point for many of the Grampians' most celebrated walks. Our choice was predetermined by Anth's research: the Pinnacles Track, famous enough to guarantee worthiness, short enough to fit our timeline, moderate enough to leave us intact for the upcoming re-screening.

The trail began its ascent through what the signs grandly proclaimed as the Grand Canyon. Though it bore no comparison to its American namesake in scale, it possessed its own intimate drama—walls of sandstone closing in, the path threading between massive boulders, each turn revealing new compositions of rock and shadow. Despite the track's reputation for popularity, we found ourselves largely alone, winter's chill keeping the crowds at bay.

Silent Street arrived like a whispered secret, its narrow passage forcing us into single file, the walls almost close enough to touch with outstretched arms. The acoustic quality changed here, our footsteps and breathing amplified in the natural corridor, the mountain itself seeming to lean in to listen to our passage. Then, suddenly, constriction gave way to revelation—we emerged onto the Pinnacle itself.

The view struck us with physical force. Halls Gap lay spread below like a toy town, its buildings reduced to miniature perfection from our elevated perch. To the east, the landscape rolled away in waves of blue-hazed distance. We stood on this precipice between earth and sky, the cathartic climb having cleared our minds as thoroughly as the view cleared our vision. The entire ascent had been across rock—ancient sandstone worn smooth by countless feet, each step a connection to geological time.

The descent returned us to our bus in a state of quiet elation, endorphins singing in our blood, spirits lifted by the simple act of going up and coming down. This, we decided with the clarity that comes from satisfaction, would be our final Grampians hike. Not from any lack of desire—these mountains could have held us for weeks—but from prudent caution. The re-screening loomed, and we wouldn't risk injury or illness that might jeopardise our chances. Our adventures would continue, but for now, we would wrap these mountain memories in protective tissue and carry them forward untouched.

Back in Halls Gap, we pulled into a quiet spot to prepare lunch and chart our next moves. The map spread across our tiny table showed the path clearly: south first, skirting the Grampians' lower reaches, before the inevitable eastward swing toward Melbourne and the appointments that called us back to structured time. As we ate, we could still see the Pinnacle high above, a tiny protrusion on the mountain's profile that held our footprints and our wonder. The Grampians had given us exactly what we needed—not the week we'd planned, but the days we'd been granted, concentrated like mountain honey into something sweet enough to sustain us through whatever came next.Read more