Written and Photographed: A Wild Ride in Australia’s High Country

THE WASHINGTON POST:

SADDLE SOAR
A Wild Ride in Australia’s High Country

Story and Photos by LESLIE FRATKIN

The words are in big block letters above the tack shed – not to be missed: “We strongly recommend the wearing of hard hats at all times whilst on horseback.” But as the guides handed the plain white helmets all around, I almost didn’t take one, for reasons I’m embarrassed to admit: The romantic in me wanted to feel the mountain air swirling through my tresses, and the city slicker in me didn’t want a bad case of hat-hair. Looking back on my wild weekend ride, however, I’m glad I made the right choice.

After a recent horseback trip in Europe, which was English-style in every way – the saddles, our London-born guide and the civilized manner in which we rode, carefully weaving our way in a perfect line, rarely faster than a slow trot – I had come to Australia for a taste of its rough mountain rides. With the words of Banjo Paterson’s poem, “The Man From Snowy River,” in mind, I longed for gritty horsemanship, complete with giant logs to jump over, low-lying tree branches to duck under and lots of crystal-clear mountain streams to splash through at a gallop.

The place to give it a go, as they say, would be Mansfield, a small mountain town in Victoria’s High Country, and the point of departure for many horse rides. Though the actual Snowy River is, in fact, roughly 125 miles to the east, two films based on the poem were shot here, firmly fixing in the minds of all Australians the association of the Snowy River legend to the area. The Three names most closely connected with trail riding around Mansfield are the Stoneys, the Lovicks and the Purcells; all of whom were involved in making the films and have been jostling for position as the Snowy River authorities ever since.

I heard about Stoney’s Bluff and Beyond Trail Rides through Equitour, an American- based outfit that books horse trips all over the world. Helen Stoney, who heads up this family-run operation, looks after all the bookings, with the help of her son Chris, who was a rider in the Snowy River films and the winner of a number of prestigious mountain cattlemen’s competitions. Chris usually leads the trips while his brother Dave spends his time breaking and training horses. Their two daughters, Kate and “Pop,” both excellent horsewomen, set up the camps and cook hearty bush meals for the riders.

So I signed up – along with my friend John, who lives in nearby Melbourne – for one the last weekend rides of the season, before the cold, wet months of winter start to move in and the horses get their chance to rest up after 10 long months of rides. As it happened, we were added on to a group of 20 or so men and women who work together at one of Australia’s TV networks, and for several years now have been coming en masse to the Stoney’s for a weekend of hard riding and good fun.

Our weekend officially began at the Merrijig Pub, a typical country establishment, where we were instructed to meet up with the Stoneys and the other riders, enjoy a pub meal and a few pots of beer – steak and chips and Victoria Bitter being the popular choices – and the chance to soak up local flavor. Friday nights get a bit wild in these kinds of places, however, especially since there are no other entertainment options for miles. It wasn’t long before we had settled in, soaked up more than our fair share of the flavor and completely forgotten why we were looking for the Stoneys in the first place. At some point during the festivities, due more to luck than common sense, we managed to introduce ourselves to a member of the Stoneys’ crew.

After many more pots of beer and a few swings around the dance floor, we were pointed down one very long, dark and windy dirt track leading to Stockyard Creek, the Stoney’s homestead and base camp for all their rides. A few wombat and kangaroo sightings and a couple of stargazing stops later, we finally arrived at our weekend home.

Most of our fellow riders were already there, looking very much at home by the fire in the main room that serves as mess hall and general gathering spot. There was that casual lack of organization so typical of Australians; some folks had already claimed their bunks for the weekend, but most were too busy picking up where they had just left off at the pub to give it a whole lot of thought. Not being accustomed to the pace of this country-style social scene, I threw down my bag on the first empty bunk I could find, said my good nights all around and fell fast asleep.

The next morning came too quickly, and I lay there, not altogether sure where I was until the pain in my head brought all memories of last night flooding back. By the candlelight provided for nocturnal navigation, I hadn’t been able to assess what my sleeping quarters added up to the night before. In the early morning light I could see what the answer was – not much. I did have a room to myself, though, with a fairly firm mattress between me and the wooden platform below, and the blankets they provided had been more than adequate protection against the chill mountain air outside.

My biggest concern was this: How on earth would I be able to ride when it felt as though a thousand wild horses had already stampeded across my bed while I slept? Only my curiosity to know whether everyone else felt as bad as I did got me off my bunk and over to the main room. True to form, everyone else was up, scrubbed, coffeed and reaching for seconds on breakfast when I walked through the door. I had just enough time to swallow some aspirin and as much coffee as my cup could hold before John “Case” Casely announced that we were leaving in five minutes.

Case was one of three guides we would have for the weekend. The other two, Matt and Liam, were already down at the barn, saddling up our horses. With a brave face and admittedly unsteady nerves, I joined the crowd gathering there, and without too much delay we were all fitted out with horses and saddles – and helmets – ready for the adventure to begin.

“Okay, we’re going to split up into three different groups,” Case shouted, “fast, faster and fastest.”

Momentarily stumped by these options, John and I both opted for “fastest,” figuring that that was what we had come for, after all. And then we were off.

Our horses headed out the gate of Stockyard Creek and toward the Howqua River as though they could have followed the path in their sleep. The three groups then split up, with the plan that we would meet up again later at our lunch site. It soon became quite clear that these horses had only one speed – fastest. In no time we were galloping through forests of eucalyptus and white gum trees, splashing through the shallow waters of the winding Howqua River and, for my part, alternately shouting out from sheer exhilaration and desperately hanging on for dear life.

It was every bit the thrill I had been looking for, and yet my horse seemed so sure of the mountain terrain that I soon developed a complete confidence in his ability to get me through this weekend in one piece. That confidence would be brought down a few notches, however, when we met up at our lunch site to discover that of the three casualties already that morning the most serious was suspected of having broken a bone. She eventually rode to the hospital with the lunch truck and, sure enough, as the rest of us ambled back to base camp at the end of the day, she was there to greet us, her arm freshly encased in plaster.

After all that hard work and fresh air I couldn’t wait to get into that lunch, and the cooking crew did not disappoint. We tied up our horses and helped ourselves to a delicious outdoor buffet of fresh salads and cold cuts, fruit, homemade biscuits and cakes. There was a luxurious sense of calm to our lunch break, as we took our time eating, compared stories while the billy tea boiled on the open fire and even napped under the shade of the giant gum trees.

Eventually, feeling well fed and rested, we saddled up again and spent the rest of the day exploring the beautiful Howqua Valley and the spectacular mountaintops around Mount Stirling and the Howitt High Plains. Our route took us along original bridle tracks blazed through the bush by early mountain cattlemen and gold miners more than a century ago.

As we rounded the last bend leading back to Stockyard Creek, I was more than ready to dismount and let my own two legs take over for a while. It had been a long, hard day and the only riders not feeling the effects of seven hours in the saddle were our three guides.

We gathered in the main room once again and waited for the source of so many great smells to be served. The source turned out to be a typical Australian roast, done to perfection. There were generous portions of lamb with roasted potatoes and green peas, and plenty of bread to soak up the gravy. Our long dinner table buzzed with the sounds of bowls being passed and the day’s adventures being told. For dessert we had a delicious spice cake served with generous helpings of fresh thick cream on top, and although hot coffee was brewing on the stove, most of my fellow riders opted for cold beers and a move outside to the giant campfire already at full blaze.

Everybody gathered around, and it didn’t take me long to figure out that the previous night’s overindulgences were just a warm-up for tonight’s main event. Clearly, I was out of my league with this crowd, and after a pretty meager attempt to keep up with the campfire songs, I said good night.

The next morning’s scene in the main hall was a lot less lively than the day before. This time I was the first to greet the new day, and although my legs were shaky, my head was relatively clear and my will to push on was strong. It was a lonely breakfast for me at first, until the least mortally wounded slowly began to wander in, holding their aching heads with regret. At least now I understood why the Stoney’s brochure so emphatically warmed riders, when packing their BYO beverages, not to underestimate how thirsty they would be at the end of a long day. Needless to say, we had a much slower start on Sunday, and in fact at least half of the group decided to stay back and catch up on their sleep.

The rest of us saddled up again, and soon we were racing along yet more forested trails and jumping over fallen logs like seasoned pros. Although I was as sore from riding just one day mountain-style as I would have been after a whole week’s worth of trail riding back home, my euphoria far outweighed any discomfort, and I reasoned that “ride now, heal later” was the modus operandi for me.

When we got back to Stockyard Creek later for lunch, I didn’t know how good it would feel to sit still until I lowered my tender bones onto a (very well-padded) chair, put my feet up by the fire and shut my eyes. It knew it would be hard to say yes, much less move at all, when our guides asked us who was ready to ride one last time. Actually, I was leaning a whole lot closer to an afternoon spent reading a good book, but when John reminded me that this could be my last chance at this sort of thing for a while, I hobbled over to my horse once again.

As it happened, we were the only two riders game enough to go out one more time. Because they now only had two cowpokes to keep an eye on, and plenty of cattle that needed to be moved, Case and Liam decided to let us help them do a bit of mustering. Granted, we didn’t exactly drive huge herds of stampeding bulls across county lines. We did, however, help herd up a small herd of cattle and move them over to another field a few miles away. All in a day’s work for a couple of cattlemen, but to John and me, it was a source of pride for weeks to come.

As the four of us slowly led the last few strays along the banks of the Howqua, Case and Liam kept stopping to point out good spots for catching fish and to show us a couple of old shacks in the woods, where gold miners and recluses came to hide out almost a hundred years ago.

That afternoon’s ride turned out to be the high point of my weekend. It was that rare opportunity to actually see the countryside through the eyes of those who live there and know intimately every tree and bend in the river.

When we finally got back to Stockyard Creek at sundown, the cooks were busy packing up their gear, and the other riders had already said their goodbyes and headed for home. Blankets and other goods were stacked up, ready for winter storage. Everywhere there were reminders that another season had come to an end.

In an effort to postpone our departure, John and I sat down on the front porch and shared one last beer and a few stories with the crew.

And silently, we each began plotting our inevitable return to the high country.