“Donna Buang”
These magic words had rung in our ears since the announcement by the government that the mount was now open for inspection, and as the announcement also stated that an accessible road was in course of construction, we decided to amalgamate our forces and do the trip.
The train journey from Flinders street to Launching Place calls for no special mention, but from that place to Warburton a series of picturesque views unfold themselves.
Mile upon mile of wattle-begirt Yarra, with the stream nearly to the top of the banks, winds its way through verdant flats amid leafy groves, every bend adding fresh charms to the beholder. In many places the water had overflowed its banks, and in these marshy hollows the frogs held high revel.
Nearing Warburton the roar of the water could be heard above that of the train, and the foaming torrent dashed irresistibly over the rocky bed on its way to the sea.
We put up at “Mountain Grand,” and had a short walk in the evening up the sides of “Little Joe” in preparation for the climb on the morrow.
The remainder of our party arriving by the evening train, we met and turned back to our lodgings, having a pretty view of the evening star setting radiant in a hollow of the hills.
At daybreak we were all astir, breakfast an hour earlier than usual being the result of the Doctor’s acquaintance with the cook. As soon as breakfast was over and lunches packed we donned leggings and big boots and prepared for the serious business of the day.
Away to the north loomed the object of our visit, five miles as the crow flies, but much more when the many slips are taken into consideration. Clad in a dense growth of scrub and bracken, with the purple and blue of the morning mists shrouding its summit, its very distance was its own enchantment, and it called us with a note that admitted of no denial.
Immediately the river is crossed the ascent begins, and even before the state school is reached a quickening pulse betokens the rise from the level.
For a mile or two the path lies through fern and bracken, and overhead the blackwoods loom dark and sombre, but the vegetation changes to blanket-wood and hazel, sassafras and musk, and the stringy-bark and messmate tower aloft in mighty majesty. Higher still we find the mountain ash and beech, and after two hours’ arduous climbing, with frequent spells to catch our breath, we arrive at Half-way gully and Myrtle Nook camp, hot and perspiring, happy, and muddy. Here the government propose to build a rest house or chalet, and the locality is indeed a charming one. Beside a clear running stream that goes singing down the hill, and partly surrounded by a grove of beeches, no better spot could have been chosen than this.
Our guide, Mr. E. Dowie, counselled moving on, as he said it was inadvisable to loiter here, and a cup of hot tea on the summit “would be better than two cups down here.” At present four tents and a slab shelter or hut occupy the space. They are for the use of the men who are engaged in clearing away the timber and scrub from the path. Hundreds of fallen trees lie in all directions, bearing evidence of the force of wind near the summit. One of those mighty trees fell whilst we were watching it, being unable to withstand the strain of the gale.
Not a stump is seen for miles, and a beautiful picture is formed by these mighty timber-clad hills in all their virgin splendor.
After leaving Myrtle Nook camp walking becomes easier, and about a mile from the look-out the first snow was seen. Just a small patch the size of one’s hand amongst the bracken. Soon these patches became longer and wider and thicker, and at last all joined and covered up the ground.
The temperature was now much colder, the wind blowing off the snow-clad hills to the east and numbing one’s fingers.
At a quarter of a mile from the top the snow was two feet deep, and the track lay over it, trodden hard by many feet. To step off the beaten track meant a plunge knee deep in clean snow, which left the foot dry as it shook off.
Now was seen the wisdom of our guide, who had tied bagging around his boots at the camp. And so, after three hours’ hard work, here we were at last at the top of Donna Buang. And what a view met us to repay for the toil of the morning!
The look-out is unfinished as yet, and a great deal of the high timber is to be removed to provide an uninterrupted view of the surrounding country.
To the west, the valley of the Yarra lay shimmering in the distance, the blue haze just shutting off Westernport bay. Launching Place seemed almost at our feet. Away to the north and east Cathedral range and Mt. Strickland bathed themselves in snow, and all the hills between there and Baw Baw had donned a snowy mantle.
From where we stood freezing on the look-out, with fingers too numb to change plates in the camera, snow was to be seen everywhere. North, south, east, and west it lay deep and white, only the tops of the biggest logs showing, and in places drifts were four feet deep . Two or three of our party had to be helped out.
Snowballing became general. Everyone met had one hand behind the back holding a snowball. Friend and foe alike pelted one another, and the fun grew fast and furious.
After the billies were boiled and hot tea served out we made a start for home, reluctantly leaving the snow for the mud and slush, and the return journey was made in time to catch the evening train to town.
To those who contemplate a visit to Donna Buang I would make a few recommendations. Don’t attempt it if physically weak. Wear good, strong boots with big nails in, also leggings or puttees to keep out the snow. Put on old trousers, and—stay at “Mountain Grand.”
