Bogong High Plains: A Lady’s Experiences
Published in Omeo Standard and Mining Gazette, Friday 18th March 1927, page 3
It is not often a lady writes her experiences of a touring party—she generally leaves it to the men of the party to do this sort of thing—but in “Bank Notes”, the monthly journal of the staff of the Commonwealth Bank, there is a graphic description of a tour to Bogong High Plains from a lady’s point of view:
It was with a thrill of anticipation of novel and interesting experiences to come, that our party of five set out in “Josephine” (our car) on the morning of the 17th November, our objective being the Bogong High Plains, 200 square miles of no man’s land, 5,350 feet above sea-level.
We lingered at Lakes Entrance for two or three days en route for Omeo, where hospitable friends had made final arrangements for the necessary stores to be sent to the Blue Duck Hotel, at Angler’s Rest, our depot. So far the roads had been perfect, and from Omeo the twenty miles drive, following the Big River (the Mitta Mitta), was wonderful— one continual bend until we finally reached the Blue Duck, tucked away in the valleys of the Bundarrah, Mitta and Cobungra Rivers, and surrounded by lovely ranges. Our days were taken up with various walks of interest (no tourist tracks, mind you!). One, especially, the Meeting of the Waters, the junction of the Cobungra and the Mitta Rivers, proved most strenuous but was well worth the effort. We also spent much time rabbit shooting and trying to master the art of trout fishing—the various streams being noted for their trout.
At last Tuesday morning came round, the day planned for our going up “on top.” “Josephine” was again put into action, and we set off attired in full riding kit, armed with blankets, rugs, cushions, and plenty of food. After a further fifteen miles’ drive towards Glen Wills, on the Tallangatta road, still following the Big River, we turned off into a bush track, through the most wonderful, tall, straight, and huge gums, arriving finally at Middle Creek (which we had to ford). On the other side was Shannon Vale, the picturesque homestead of Mr. Fitzgerald, who was to take us on to the High Plains.
It took some little time to adjust the pack for “Dick” the packhorse, and saddle the other five horses ready for our climb. At last we were all mounted, and a large patch of snow on a peak overlooking the homestead seemed to beckon us on for fear it would be gone before we had time to enthuse over it. From the commencement of our ride, Miss Irwin’s fiery steed, “Bess,” promised to be a source of amusement, and the joke of the party. “Bess” was an experienced lady, and knew when she had a tender-hearted passenger aboard, so it was. “Come on there!” Keep her to it!” or “Give her a good hard hit; she doesn’t feel those little taps!” from Mr. Fitzgerald, who was well in the lead of the party, and incidentaly mounted on “Bess’s” spry young daughter.
Lovely wild violets grew all along the track, the tallest and the deepest in color that any of us had seen. We also learnt quite a lot about timber. In the early stages of our climb, there were peppermints, white gums, and messmates, and, as we gradually reached the height of 4000 feet, big tall, straight, woolly butts grew in abundance. After that, the timber became smaller, and changed to snow gum, a stunted and tough type of white gum, which grows in quantities on the High Plains, and is only suitable for firewood. The snow gum was a sure sign that we were nearing our destination, and just before sunset we espied Fitzgerald’s hut in the distance, looking very lonely and small, a large drift of snow in the near back ground, and almost surrounded by undulating hills covered with snow grass and snow gums.
So, this was our future home for the next few days; and what ideal surroundings! We hastened to dismount, feeling very stiff and sore. Our ride of barely seven miles had taken three and a quarter hours, and in that distance, we had risen over 4,000 feet. We were all anxious to see the interior of the hut. The taking of an inventory was a matter of a few minutes—a huge open fire place occupied one end, a home-made table three stools, a bench, and two wooden bunks provided with hessian mattresses stuffed with straw, completed the furnishings. Five enamel mugs, five plates, five rusty knives and forks, and two spoons were all we could find in the way of crockery and cutlery. This was our very first experience of roughing it, and it gave us a queer feeling of isolation to realise that we were the only human beings on this vast plateau, miles away from civilisation, on top of the world. We had heard vaguely of guides and packhorses, and cattlemen’s huts, wild horses, etc., which sounded to us very like good material for a wild west movie show; but we had no idea what was actually in store for us.
Thousands of head of cattle are taken here from the surrounding country during the summer months, and we take off our hats to the stockmen who live up there in such primitive conditions during that season. Even now it is impossible to describe the country. It is so vast, so grand, and so imposing, we felt we were in another world. Our next procedure was to inspect Kelly’s hut (“Moss Bed Villa”) where the three men were to live, about half a mile away, where quite a large run was fenced in for the horses.
By this time we were ravenous, and hurried back to Fitzgerald’s hut (“Park House”) to prepare our evening meal. A huge fire was soon blazing, and we sat down to choice stuffed mutton, bread and butter, jam, tea, and preserved fruit. It was freezingly cold, and we literally hugged the fire, sitting on our stools, while Mr. Fitzgerald entertained us with wild cattle yarns, and the doings of the early settlers of Omeo, Tallangatta, and the surrounding district.
At last the men decided it was time they made a move for home, and in a short while we were snugly tucked in in our straw beds. Sleep seemed out of the question. The boards in the bunk creaked loudly as we tossed and turned, and we quite expected to find that our hip-bones had come through the skin. By 6 a.m. the straw bed and the cold became too much for us. The fire had burnt out, so we decided to get up and re-kindle it; but, alas! we found that the men had decamped with the matches! To make matters worse, we discovered ice on the billies and kettles in the hut. Of course, we immediately felt several degrees colder; but that ice somehow gave us a feeling of satisfaction! There was nothing else to do but await the arrival of the men and the matches; and it was with a howl of relief that we greeted them, as they came over the rise leading in our “neddies” ready for the day’s trip.
A breakfast of grilled chops soon cheered us up, and soon after we were off on our first exploration. On ascending the first slope we were thrilled to see Kosciusko, right away to the north, covered with snow, ail gold and pink in the sunshine., Following the snow poles for some miles, we made for Mt. Nelson [ed: Nelse], near which lay a huge snowdrift, a hundred feet deep. We saw lots of emus racing across the Plains; and also the sources of several rivers, the Mitta Mitta, Kiewa, Pretty Valley River, White Rock Creek, and many smaller streams, which go to swell the waters of the Kiewa and the Mitta. “Bess” still living up to her reputation, was constantly urged on by our guide, who gave her many a sly hit on the rump, which kept her briskly moving for a few yards. We had to ford and jump many streams, some of which were boggy and treacherous. The horses required some persuasion to cross these, and after pirouetting round, each horse would eventually jump, the next rider in the file wondering somewhat uneasily how he or she would manage to stick on. At last our friend “Bess’s” turn would come, and we would be anxiously awaiting on the opposite bank for her. To our intense amusement she would either step over it most carefully, or walk through in the most casual manner. She simply refused to be a sport and provide a thrill.
Billy tea and a cold lunch above White Rock Creek Falls, with a near view of Crow’s Nest and Buffalo in the distance refreshed us, and once more we were off, this time to view Spion Kop and Mt. Bogong, the highest peak in Victoria. We had a vast and wonderful view of the surrounding country from Razor Back, close to Mt. Bogong. Beginning with Mt. Hotham in the distance, we could see a circle along the Alps, Buffalo across the Towanga and Kiewa Valleys, Dederang and round to the ranges in south-eastern Victoria. Towards sundown it grew very chilly, and the homeward ride seemed very long, and our knees were beginning to feel the strain! However, the lovely scenery compensated for physical discomforts. Range upon range of Blue Mountains wherever we looked, combined with a marvellous sunset. No wonder we had heard such enthusiastic reports of the Bogong High Plains.
We arrived home at dusk, and were soon doing justice to our evening meal in the glow of a roaring fire; our only other light being two candles, one in a bottle, and the other in a candlestick made of four nails and a block of wood. Neither of us had brought a mirror in our kit, and we really were truly thankful. By looking at each other, we decided that our complexions had gone to the pack, in spite of much lanoline and cold cream, and as we were usually smeared with either one or the other, we were visions to behold. How we longed to creep into our beds; but how true we found the words “distance lends enchantment.” We simply could not sleep, and although it was much better up than in our nest of straw and creaking boards, our escorts from Kelly’s hut always seemed to arrive bright and early, before we had completed our toilets or done any house work. From the moment we climbed out of bed until we were fully attired, we would gaze feverishly out of the door, hoping we would not see the men coming over the hill. They always seemed to make a point of arriving before schedule, which was really most alarming.
Our next day’s trip took us to the opposite side of the plateau, through Rocky Valley, and Pretty Valley, through which flows Pretty Valley river one of the finest streams we had seen. Thence on to Mt. Cope, from which point we had a fine view of the Omeo Plains, Mount Hotham and the Alps road cut through the snow, across which we ourselves were to travel in a few days’ time, and Mt. Feathertop, which looked like a huge cone-shaped brown pudding, with white sauce poured over the top. We lunched on Mt. Cope, and then made a straight line across to Mount Jim, which was the nearest point we could get to Feathertop. On the other side of a steep valley, it lost no beauty in a near view. Very rugged and wild, Feathertop is almost insurmountable from this side; no gentle slopes for ski-ing. One dash down here would mean the finish.
The day was drawing to a close, and Mr. Fitzgerald thought it time we started homeward. There are so many undulating slopes covered with dead snow gum and similar drifts of snow on the plains that one is very apt to lose one’s bearings. Thinking our hut was just the other side of the next rise, we asked our guide how far we were from home. To our horror, he said, “About thirteen miles.” We groaned inwardly, and outwardly— our poor knees! By this time we had had to resort to taking our feet out of the stirrups, and riding with our legs over the saddle pads, praying that the horses would not stumble and throw us overboard. However, once we knew the worst, we conjured up brave smiles and again forgot how weary we were. There was always something of interest to see, and our guide was a fund of information on all subjects.
It was 7·30 before we reached “Park House,” that night, our last on the Plains. The straw mattresses proved more unsympathetic than ever, and we decided that next time we went Bogonging, camp beds would be included in our equipment. It was 10·30 the next morning when we had finally packed up and cleaned house, ready for the descent, and it was with regret that we said farewell to the High Plains and our lonely hut. Somehow, the spirit of hospitality about these huts appealed to us, and we wondered who would be the next visitors. It is quite impossible to do full justice to this country, it is too immense for graphic description.
On our arrival at Shannon Vale, we were greeted enthusiastically by all the dogs in Christendom, and the remaining horses on the property. Once again our gear was packed in “Josephine” and before we left for the Blue Duck, we experienced more bush hospitality, in being invited to stay to lunch and were taken to Shannon Vale falls, of which Mr. Fitzgerald and his brother are very proud. These falls are about eighty feet in height, and all around grow beautiful ferns and long sprays of cream clematis. We were ambitious enough to try to reach Omeo in time for dinner, but by the time we changed, had a much appreciated shower, and packed our gear again, it was six o’clock, and the narrow and winding road into Omeo made speeding impossible. The prospect of soft beds, and sleep, and hot baths was very alluring, and a large hot meal was more than acceptable at 7·30.
We spent the week-end resting in Omeo, still applying much cold cream and trying to repair damages. On the following Monday, after making quite sure that the Alps road would be open, we once more departed in “Josephine.”
