Out of Canberra and off to the Victorian High Country. We pass through Bredbo. A neat, well-patronised Australian country town. Pie shop. Café. Pub. Pie shop. Café. Aromatherapist. No cars outside the aromatherapist. But Cooma is our destination. Its more crowded, but after much driving we find a café that could be anywhere and just manage a park somewhere near. Should have gone to the aromatherapist for morno’s. But this one has vanilla slice.
The B23 climbs out of Cooma. Big skies, vast rolling paddocks. And roadkill like the road to Basra. Jindabyne next to the lake is picturesque but over-full with holidaymakers. We wizz on through, heading into skiing country. ‘No cars, no queues, no crowds’, says the smiling face on the sign welcoming us to Thredbo. Hmm, they missed, ‘no mountains and no snow,’ mutters my companion.
A radio call from the other Land Rover. ‘Hello Peter, this is Joy, is that an emu down there, over?’ ‘No, just a big chicken’ I reply. There is silence. (Australia: 2, UK: Nil). Now I’m supposed to put in a bit here about how I forgot to turn the radio on the next day and missed two radio check calls. But I’ll gloss over that because it isn’t important, and it doesn’t alter the score!
Tom Groggin Campground (wide open spaces and zero facilities) is on a bend with windy roads in both directions. We share it with few others. Roos are everywhere, as are incontinent brumbies by the amount of poo around. But we don’t see those. As night descends the stars come out. With no light pollution they are, for the first time on this trip, spectacular; the Milky Way clearly in evidence. Satellites skim overhead. They are part of us now!
At breakfast I am accused of not sharing my toast because matron told me off for rummaging in the food box. Tomorrow they’ll get full benefit of Shapland cuisine!
We plan our route and set off for Victoria and the Davis High Plain track.
A queue of vehicles are preparing to cross the Murray River Ford. Nervously, I change in to crocks to test it. But a wide-boy in a 21st century four-wheel-drive scoots past us, drives around in the river a bit, and then shoots up the other side. OK, so not that deep. Peter goes first, on the basis that if it gets stuck, Joy can winch it back. But the water passage is a breeze. The exit isn’t; the same kind of rocky bumps that killed a tyre on Bribie.
Behind Joy the queue of vehicles grows. A quick radio call. ‘If you want photos, you’ll have to get a wiggle on, because we’re going to have to go.’ I sprint towards the best position, trip over, twist my ankle, have my radio on the wrong channel, hobble the last few yards to find the ford empty. Joy is already over. I get grumpy, blaming the radio channels. But it is soon sorted out.
On the far side of the ford, the first inklings that our preferred track – the most difficult one, of course – may not be available. ‘Track closed ahead’. Could be an old sign. Surely they would have opened it for Easter? Another ford. We head on to Buckwong Creek camping area.
Here, local knowledge and a further sign confirms the news. That makes our next day’s journey on an alternative track much shorter. Its only 11.00 am. But we camp and doze the afternoon away.
Other nature-lovers in this pristine Alpine National Park saunter past with chainsaws to collect firewood. Different rules in Victoria, clearly.
In the afternoon after an extremely refreshing swim/bath, the surrounding campers think we’re mad and everything seems much warmer, Rob, a 70-year-old looking after his grandkids, joins us for drinks. It’s always a mistake having a real Australian along. He knows things I should do and scares all of us with tales of tiger snakes that swim and see in the dark, and killer possums. That night we have the best protected rubbish bag ever known.
His son, John, comes over to talk fishing – rainbow trout and sling shotting – with Guy. James flinches and rubs his toe. An inch long insecty creature ambles off in satisfaction. ‘Meat ant!’ I exclaim. ‘Aw yea, inch ants’ says John, interested but unsympathetic. ‘Its got a couple of pincers up front and a sting in its arse. So it grabs ya and hangs on and then wacks the sting into ya’. Ya’ll have a red spot and pain for 6 weeks!’ James’s foot certainly throbs, and his telling of the story grows. But if, back home, he tells you of the 13-inch ant that bit him, he’s fibbing!
After breakfast the next morning, which includes toast and marmalade for everyone and a burnt finger for me, we set off for the alternative Tom Groggin track. It isn’t as easy as billed. The first section is low ratio first gear as we lever ourselves over rocks hewn to the surface by rain and erosion.
Definitely some tricky four-wheel driving. These go-anywhere Land Rovers were never not going to make it but their whole body creeks as wheels find different places to spring off.
After a while the track improves. We chug along between fire-ravaged blue-gums and new growth scrub. We pull off on a small track for coffee.
Curiosity gets the better of me and I declare my need to explore past the next bend in search of the view-to-end-views. ‘You won’t find it!’, declares James.
He’s pretty much right, but there is a glimpse of the hills beyond.
The road dips to the plains amid autumn colours and occasional farms. Tree lined roads herald the entrance to Benambra – Population; ‘not much’. Turn right and there’s the general store. Catering for anything; baby’s milk to car parts. On a Saturday it’s a hub. Everyone seems to be dropping by. Including the local Gandaulf with a parrot on his shoulder. We feast on caffeine and pie and chips.
Benambra Recreation Reserve wins the prize so far for ‘top campsite’ so far. Set on the showground rigged for Aussie rules, (one match a year according to the President), it is $5 per head a night, magnificent views, hot showers, phone reception, walking distance to the pub and few neighbours. One, Alex – a twenty-something apprentice motor mechanic on a KLR 650 – stops for a chat. He’s got a broken ankle that couldn’t quite take the hills his mates were doing. Great to see young people exploring Australia on their own.
Its charities like The Smith Family and Onside that work to give young people a chance to explore their opportunities and again, that’s the reason for this blog. We’re raising funds to support them to support all our futures. So please help spread the message about what they do by sharing the link or our gofundme page.
Again for the benefit of Mike’s non-Oz Blog-followers, a clarification.
Australians are well-known (indeed potentially “notorious”) as “tellers of tall tales”.
Speaking in defence of possums of both kinds, ring-tail (pseudocheirus peregrinus) and brush-tail (trichisurus vulpecular), they are not “killers”. They are, in fact, cute furry little things about the size of a cat, and my wife hand-feeds several of them every night on our dining room decking.
What wasn’t mentioned, however, was Australia’s most (in)famous ambush predator, the “Killer Drop Bear”…
I’m sure that someone will mention this to our extraordinary expeditioners at some other campsite on the journey.