Across the Roof of Victoria on Horseback
It has long been a hobby of mine to utilise my holidays every summer by travelling the mountain ranges, taking photographs of the magnificent, though neglected, scenery; and roughly mapping the unmapped ranges. For several years a trip to Mt. Bogong (6508 ft.), Victoria’s highest peak, had been in my mind. The great advantage of the trip from the Maffra district lies in the fact that four of the grandest mountain masses are in the direct line of travel. They are: The Dargo High Plains, the main divide at Mt. Hotham, the Bogong High Plains, and Mt. Bogong itself.
On Saturday, January 16, I was ready to start. It was a dull cloudy day, and I set out for Briagolong early in the afternoon, riding a mare “Winnie” and leading a packhorse “Bogong.” One of the objects of the trip was to christen “Bogong” on the highest point of Mt. Bogong. On his back was a pack-saddle carrying enough provisions for two weeks and blankets. That night I stayed with a friend, Mr. A. Estoppey, the well known Moroka cattleman, at Briagolong.
On January 17, after being farewelled by a local journalist “Stormy Petrel,” at her holiday camp, I started up the long winding Freestone Creek road to Cobbanah, 25 miles north. The main feature of this road is the number of bends one after another, and one does not seem to be getting anywhere. The scenery is good in a quiet way. The deserted Cobbanah hotel offered a roof and good feed for the horses, but the place appeared sad and lonely, and haunted with past memories, especially in the silent hours of darkness.
On January 18 travel was resumed along the Dargo Road, winding through the bush. Before noon the ranges opened out to the wide expanse of sunny grasslands at “Castleburn,” guarded on each side by lofty timbered peaks. Who has not heard of the Treasures of Castleburn, famous for their fine herds of Hereford cattle, and their vast mountain station? “Castleburn” is the winter country held in reserve for the big herds which are brought down from the high plains before the snow falls. From there on to Dargo the country is fairly clear, and more interesting than the monotonous timber. The Mitchell River at Waterford presents a very quiet and pleasant scene. Dargo lies in a very fine basin, and the cleared bowl of bleached grass contrasts vividly against the frowning dark timbered rim of mountains. Camp was made that night at Dargo.
The next day’s travel (30 miles) was the longest of the outward trip. After the first two or three miles, the road rises fairly steeply, and is cut into the mountain side nearly to the top of Mt. Ewen. From Mt. Ewen onwards, the road is a gently undulating switchback gradually rising all the time. The ridge is thickly timbered with large snow-gums and silver wattle, but becomes more open on nearing Treasure’s station. The site of Gow’s hotel is a small clearing containing the remains of stone walls and the base of a stone fireplace. At Treasure’s station (the summer residence) I was very hospitably received. Having a great liking for bawly cattle, and wishing for a little excitement, I asked if they needed a hand with the calf branding. They did. So they arranged to start in a week and a day, which was the time I calculated to be back from Mt. Bogong.
The following morning I proceeded along the Big Lane, a road between fenced mustering paddocks, across a clear plain (Lankey’s Plain), and on to a made road cut into the mountain sides. This is where the really grand scenery begins. A winding ridge is followed from the Dargo High Plains to the main divide at Mt. St. Bernard. On the left the Blue Rag runs out like a lofty headland overlooking a vast basin. This is the basin of the Crooked, Pioneer, and Wonnangatta rivers. On the right to the north is a grand view of Mt. Hotham, and right ahead the lofty pinnacle of The Twins towers into the sky. At Mt. St. Bernard one has a grand view of the Ovens Valley, Mt. Buffalo, Mt. Feathertop, and Mt. Hotham. Here the road intersects the Alpine Road, which connects Omeo with Bright and at one point runs 100ft. below the summit of Mt. Hotham, which is 6,100ft. above sea level. Leaving the road on Mt. Hotham, I rode over the summit, pausing at the cairn to admire the magnificent panorama of the mountains stretching away in all directions. I must agree with Mr. Henderson Croll, the mountaineer-journalist, who said that this is the finest all round panoramic view in Victoria. A metal disk points out the different peaks and their distance as the crow flies. One could write a book on this view alone, but to mention a few peaks: Mt. Wellington can be seen 40 miles south as three small knobs on a high wall; Mt. Howitt appears like a tilted table; Mt. Cobbler as the steep, pointed gable roof of a church; Mt. Buffalo a huge plateau, with strange points of rock upon it representing the horns and hump; and grandest of all, rugged Mt. Feathertop like the blade of a knife cleaving the sky to the north. The great plateau of the Bogong High Plains rolls away to the north-east with Mt. Cope like a volcanic cone rising from its east side. The Omeo clear country and Mt. Gibbo ranges stretch away to the east. The government chalet is a fine modern hotel perched up near the summit of Mt. Hotham.
After a comfortable night at the chalet I struck north from the Alpine Road at Mt. Hotham, round the top of Mt. Loch, beneath a gleaming white bank of snow, down to the 4,500ft. level at the head of the Cobungra River and Dibbins’ log cabin, and up a spur on to the great rolling expanse of grass and rocks on the Bogong High Plains. Here I became a mere microscopic speck hardly moving at a snail’s pace in the vast deceiving distances. The track was easy to follow as it was marked by a continuous line of snow poles placed three chains apart and numbered. This great plateau averaging 5,500ft. above sea level has an ideal summer climate. The temperature never rises above 70 degrees F. in the shade and except for isolated patches of snow gums it is all open to the healthy winds, giving a person a sense of boundless freedom and wellbeing only experienced upon our open mountain tops above timberline. Slowly I crawled past Mt. Cope, leaving it further and further behind until it was out of sight. It was approaching sundown when Fitzgerald’s hut came into sight, but the yard was no good, so I went on a bit to Kelly’s hut where there was a good wire-fenced horse paddock, and camped for the night. The greatest danger to mankind on the high plains is fog. If there are any low clouds it is likely to become foggy, and the fog is often so dense one cannot see for more thin a few feet. At the approach of fog one must make for a hut and stay there till it lifts. It may be for a day or for a week.
On the morning of January 22 I set out for Mt. Bogong. The sunrise was red and a dark bank of clouds covered the north-western sky, from which a cold wind blew. Disregarding these signs, I wound my way among beds of rocks up on to the impressive bulk of Mt. Nelson [ed: Nelse]. It began to rain and a blanket cloud settled upon the summit of Mt. Bogong, which I could see for the first time. Turning back I arrived at Kelly’s hut just as the storm broke. Steady rain beat down and thick fog settled down to stay.
The next morning was still foggy, but it broke up and drifted away at mid-day, revealing the grim dark bulk of Mt. Wills across the Big River. I set off again over Mt. Nelson to Roper’s Hut. This is a comfortable corrugated iron hut with a good horse paddock, situated on the north edge of the Bogong High Plains. Timm’s Lookout rises to the west beside the hut, and northward across the valley of the Big River towers the grand rugged bulk of Mt. Bogong, a high plateau with almost perpendicular sides.
The morning of January 24 dawned clear and sunny, and I did not hesitate to tackle the great peak. It was hard to decide however, which way to go up. Snow poles led over Timm’s Lookout to the top of a plain track. I noted a razorback spur going up from Bogong Gap [ed: this is Quartz Ridge]. It looked easy. Following the track down to the Big River and up to the gap, I almost went on to Towanga, but discovering the mistake in time, I turned up from the gap, and on to the Razorback Spur. There was no track, and half way up the ridge became so steep, narrow, and rocky that I thought of turning back to find a better way. Having come so far I would not turn back. The ridge rose higher, steeper, and narrower, until near the top the prospect became really frightening. The horses struggled up over pinnacles of rock no more than three feet wide, and both sides of the ridge fell almost sheer down for 2,000 feet. It was fascinating to look down. Jagged rocks jutted from the mountain side down there like teeth waiting to smash anything that fell. At last the horses reached the firm ground of the mountain top.
Magnificent views can be seen from all parts of the top of Mt. Bogong. From the west peak one looks down sheer into the blue gulf of the Kiewa Valley. The clear country at Towanga looks very small from this height. From the summit one looks north across rolling timbered ranges to the yellow Murray Valley; and on to distant blue hills in N.S.W. North-east the rugged crests of Mt. Kosciusko stick up like the teeth of a saw on the horizon. At the cairn on the summit of Mt. Bogong, 6,508 feet above sea level, on January 24, I had completed the object of my trip, having climbed Victoria’s highest peak, and here I christened “Bogong” the horse after the big mountain. Scrambling down the north side I inspected the hut. Having no yard it is only suitable for hikers or skiers. It is built of iron, and is stuck on the almost sheer slope just under the summit. One wonders how it stays there, as the rear is cut into the mountain, while the front is up on stilts. Looking down the Staircase Spur is like looking down a fire escape fixed to the side of a skyscraper.
A few cattle grazing on the top were very poor, as the grass had hardly begun to grow. Two or three patches of snow still clung to sheltered spots. The temperature at 2 p.m. was 61 degrees F. in the shade. That night I was forced to camp at the Clive Cole [ed: Cleve Cole] memorial hut, which is on the plateau one mile east of the summit, as there was no sign of an alternative track back to Roper’s hut. I discovered it too late from Timm’s Lookout next day. Mt. Bogong is a dangerous place to camp on as the weather is often very harsh. Fog, storms, and snow can be expected at any time. It is very easy when there to imagine the tragedy which overtook Clive Cole and his party. The memorial hut is built of square stone blocks cemented together and contains every possible convenience, including water continually running from taps. An American has already climbed Mt. Bogong with two Australians. His name is in the hut—Mr. Jackman, of New York. There is a finely bound visitors’ book in which one is asked to write down temperature and barometer readings.
On the morning of January 25, being anxious to get safely off Mt. Bogong, I was up at the first streak of dawn, and was soon on the way back up over the summit. A gale of cold wind was blowing, and the horses disliked facing it, while I disliked facing the Razorback Spur. It was madness to ride down the rock pinnacles, so letting the packhorse loose, I led the mare and walked slowly and carefully down over the rocks. It was wonderful to see the horses picking their way. They knew that a stumble would send them to their death. It was a great relief to reach Bogong Gap and safety. Roper’s hut was reached at mid-day, and after lunch the return journey was resumed as far as Wallace’s hut, seven miles north of the head of the Cobungra River.
The following day I travelled 32 miles back to Treasure’s station, where I arrived at sunset. A feature of the trip was the large numbers of Hereford cattle grazing all over the mountains, and also droves of tame horses on the Bogong High Plains. I saw a flock of emus, several foxes, and a dingo pup.
On January 26 I began a fortnight of work on Treasure’s station. Day after day I saw nothing but fine Hereford cattle, and heard nothing but their bawling. Three of us there were to muster the cattle. We brought in a bellowing mob one day and branded them the next with the help of two others. It was great fun sitting down in two or three inches of dust, choking with it, trying to hold a hefty leg of beef, and every now and then a bawling, milling, kicking mass of weighty calves would trample all over the top of me. Bruises and dirt were the order of the day, but there are many worse jobs, and joking companions lighten the work. The day after the branding the mob was driven out to a clear plain, and held there while the cows found their calves, each pair being cut out until they were all dispersed. One sound I shall never forget is the long drawn call of sa-a-a-a-alt as the rider sits patiently on a log and waits for the cattle to come running from the gullies and slopes for a lick of salt.
On Sunday, February 14, I resumed my journey home, using the same camps as on the way up; but from Cobbanah to Briagolong the old insolvency track proved a good substitute for the longer and harder Free stone Creek road. The weather was hot and I was glad to reach home on February 17. My only regret was that my camera broke down at Mt. Hotham and I was unable to take photos of the grandest scenery on the Bogongs. This will necessitate another trip in the future.
