Waltzing Australia

The High Country

  A three-hour drive took us through the rolling, green Victorian countryside, then up into the hills and forests at the feet of the Great Dividing Range. Our group for the safari gathered at Licola, a tiny “town” that seems to exist only in a sort of “last chance” capacity—food and petrol for those about to disappear into the wilderness.

There were eleven riders in all, with a wide variety of backgrounds, and ages running from 19 to about 45. I was the only American and the least experienced rider of the group. My three months of lessons, which culminated in the rib-breaking fall just prior to my departure for Australia, were ranged against people who own horses, train horses, and even ride daily as part of their work. I was definitely out-classed here. This was not a bunch of weekend hacks out for a romp in the woods. This was a bunch of hardcore riders out for the thrill of a lifetime. Almost everyone had been on one or more of these adventures before. Of course, it added tremendously to my sense of security and well-being when Judy, a veteran of many saddle safaris, donned a crash helmet, noting cheerfully, “My doctor said if I get injured again as badly as I did last time—well, it would be the last time.” (Despite this disheartening introduction, Judy turned out to be both a good friend and the source of most of the botanical information I garnered on this trip.)

The eleven riders include Colin, who is the kind of rider who can pick a flower at a dead gallop; Bradley and Beth, both accomplished equestrians; Jenny and Lisa, sisters from Melbourne, whose only difficulty was adjusting to a saddle, as they usually ride bareback; Mary and Bob, horse owners from near Melbourne; Judy of the white crash helmet, also a local horse owner; Les, a rancher from New South Wales; Carol, one of the few newcomers, but still an experienced rider; and me. We were accompanied by trail boss Malcolm (Mal), who is blond, rugged, handsome, and looks like he belongs here; and Mal’s young but skilled assistant trail bosses, Andrew and Marie. Meeting us most nights with the truck was Debbie, Mal’s wife, a petite, vivacious, pretty brunette.

The only other group members were Rex and Huon. Rex is a shelty and belongs to Mal and Debbie. He traveled with Debbie in the truck. Huon, a probable German shepherd/labrador cross, belongs to Andrew and Marie. He came with us, dashing madly back-and-forth all day long, making sure everything was all right and that no one got lost.

Soon after we arrived in Licola, an enormous trailer bearing our horses passed us. We followed it about a mile up the road, then helped unload and walk the horses. I grabbed my camera, and started shooting pictures of the horses, the clearing where they were tethered, and everything around us. It was a glorious day, and the surrounding mountains and trees sparkled with sunlight and promises.

Debbie soon arrived in the four-wheel-drive truck. She fed us a hearty lunch before stowing the last of our gear. I decided to let my camera equipment go in the truck, at least until I saw what kind of riding we’d be doing. It was a wise decision, and one I was forced to stay with for the duration of the trip. As much as I would have loved photos of this adventure, neither camera nor rider would have survived the experience.

After lunch, I was introduced to Ginger, a powerful, dark coppery-red gelding, who’d be my mount for the next six days. Ginger is a beautiful, good-natured animal, but spirited and very competitive. It was going to be a challenging relationship.

We were soon mounted and on our way. We walked our horses for a while, so we could get used to them, and vice versa. The Australian stock saddle took a little getting used to, too. It’s built to keep you from sliding backward or forward when going up or down steep inclines. This is useful—vital, in fact—but it’s a good deal different from anything I’ve ridden on before.

Mal explained, for the benefit of the newcomers, how to handle mountains. Going uphill, you stand in the stirrups, but crouching, with knees bent, so you’re still close to the horse, you grab a handful of mane and hold yourself as far forward over the horse’s neck as possible (not all that easy, especially if it’s a long climb). Going downhill, you lie back in the saddle as far as you can, gripping the back of the saddle if necessary for balance. You don’t want to interfere with the horse’s ability to climb or descend at what it feels is the easiest pace and on the surest footing. However, these are spirited animals, and they are excited by the freedom of the mountains, so you need to maintain some control, so your horse doesn’t descend too quickly.

The mountains rose around us, craggy and dramatic. Eucalypts of all sizes crowded the lower slopes. The air was fragrant and clean. Snow-fed streams of incredible clarity splashed and sang, and tumbled over cliffs.

We ascended the Bennison Spur, climbing over 4,000 feet, through the trees and up the steep, rocky side of the mountain. It was a bit arduous, but the higher we climbed, the more glorious the views became. We circled the top of the Spur, clinging to narrow, rocky ledges, with the mountain dropping sheerly away inches from our horses’ hooves. The horses picked their ways carefully among the boulders and trees.

We stopped momentarily at Bennison Lookout, to admire the forests and the green and blue mountains below and around us, stretching into the distance on all sides. Then we climbed on.

Suddenly the trees parted, and before us lay an undulating field filled with thick tufts of snow grass, ground-hugging bushes, and beautiful wildflowers. Open fields meant mad canters. It was here I first discovered Ginger’s competitive streak. If everyone is going fast, Ginger tries to go faster. That first day, I was not strong enough to really enjoy Ginger’s tremendous power, so I merely hung on like grim death as he swept past the other horses, his great strides eating up the ground beneath us. But, as insecure as I felt, I could still sense Ginger’s pleasure in his own speed, in the freedom of flying across that open field.

The pace slowed again as we got back into the trees. The red tinge of new growth on the eucalypts gave an almost autumnal look to the forest. The air was perfumed with the wonderful, heady scent of flowering wattles, as well as other mountain flowers, mixed with the crisp fragrance of the eucalypts, and freshened by the breezes coming off the snow fields above us. My pleasure in all this natural beauty was immeasurably enhanced by the sheer romance of traversing this splendid country on horseback.

After four hours of riding, we topped a high crest that looked down on a narrow, green valley surrounded by rocky, scrub-covered hills and dark, fragrant forest. This was where we would camp for the night. Debbie had arrived ahead of us and already had a fire blazing and the billy boiling.

The drop down into the valley was fairly steep. I laid flat back in the saddle and gripped the cantle as firmly as possible, for balance. Riding is largely a matter of balance. However, I have an imbalance in the inner ear—i.e., no balance at all. I had learned to compensate by increasing my leg strength, but three months out of the saddle had seriously reduced that strength. About the only thing keeping me on that horse was stubbornness.

At the bottom of the hill we forded Shaw Creek, a clear, ice-cold mountain stream that runs across the plain. The horses were a bit skittish here. Normally, a horse prefers not to leap into a swiftly flowing stream unless it trusts its rider. Our horses didn’t know us that well yet, but we managed to coax them over the bank, into the cold water, and up the other side—though it was, in my case anyway, more the promise of dinner than my skill as a rider that got Ginger to make the crossing. On the other side, the horses broke joyfully into a canter, heading without guidance straight for camp.

First thing to be done was to tend to the horses. We took off their saddles, bridles, and blankets, hung the blankets out to dry, put on their rope halters, and took them down to the stream for a quick wash-down and a long, cool drink. Then we tethered them around the campsite and got them their well-deserved feedbags. After that, we grabbed our own gear and headed for our tents.