Too far now, from the flat plains below, the mountains creep up to the sky.

The train launches up to Lapstone, placing the city on a board far below.

Still the track winds upwards, leaving die-straight gums behind, filled with knee-high scrub and framed by steep rock cliffs.

Carving a path through humps of sandstone, dribbling red smears of iron rust through the roots of long grey grasses scrabbling for purchase.

Under the brick bridge then to burst out again in the westering light that casts long shadows pointing toward Lithgow.

Glenbrook trickles in, a relief of brick and fibro and tile after the wild cliffs and crevasses of the park.

Walled by pocked sandstone, its golden glow stained by dark run off and chipped and cracked, and extending as the tracks brother, sometimes rising, sometimes falling as the silver can shoots through.

A gash through the greenery slides into view as the tar ribbons of Blaxland approach. Neat lawns and cosy homes perch on either side of the twins of transport, track and highway, pushing on up the rise.

Dark ahead and winding through scattered lights the track goes on.