Walking the Blues Away
After my heart took a trampling recently, a wise woman advised me to get out from under the doona and look at the horizon. So when an invitation arrived to go walking in the Snowy Mountains I decided to take her advice and see if some of the most spectacular horizons in Australia could help lighten my load.
On Boxing Day I pack a small suitcase and drive with my friends Caroline and Charlie from Melbourne to the southern NSW lakeside town of Jindabyne. Just west of the town along the Alpine Way we check into an eccentric guest house called Bimblegumbie in the foothills of Mount Crackenback (‘great location for a chiropractic conference’, suggests Charlie, trying to raise a smile from his quietest passenger)
Established by owner Pru Parker in the late 1970’s, Bimblegumbie (meaning ‘whistling spear’ in one of the local indigenous languages) began life as a small house on a tree-covered hillside. It has since grown to a rambling collection of one and two-storey cottages dotted around the much-extended main lodge.
Canine pets are welcome here. Dogs can potter around the landscaped gardens dotted with sculptures - everything from a tower of rusted hanging chains to a tree covered with exotic masks. There’s even a piano sitting in an open shed complete with stool for anyone wanting to play a few tunes for the wildlife. The dogs don’t seem to deter the wallabies from grazing on the garden’s lush summer grass.
Up the hill behind the main house Pru’s companion Craig has carefully positioned a wicker chair overlooking the green valley below. He’s also stashed a couple of sets of binoculars in a nearby tree for better viewing; just one of many small, thoughtful touches at Bimblegumbie.
I stay in the Rose Room of the main house (deep red and green walls) and my friends are in a small studio in the garden. Each day Caroline consults the maps and plans a different walk for us while Charlie packs the lunches.
Day One we drive back through Jindabyne, past the ski resort of Perisher and up into the Mt Kosciuszko National Park. Parking at Charlotte’s Pass (named after Charlotte Adams, the first woman to reach the summit of Mt Kosciuszko), we add an extra layer of clothing against the cool alpine wind and set off for the Blue Lake.
A paved path leads down the steep hill towards the Snowy River. In spite of the summer sun there are still some luminescent puddles of snow on the distant mountain peaks. Purple, white and yellow wildflowers are strewn beside the path as if from a giant’s basket. Crossing the wobbly rocks over the river, we begin the steep ascent towards Carruthers Peak.
My lungs are soon protesting but I ignore them. This is exactly the treatment they need. When you’re struggling for every breath, there is simply no energy left for rumination and regret. We stop to watch some children sliding down a patch of remnant snow beside the track before we descend to the Blue Lake.
With clouds piling up overhead, the lake is more slate grey than azure. A couple of giant granite boulders provide a windbreak as we eat our packed lunches and listen to the water rushing out of the lake towards the Snowy River. Then we follow the river until we reach another body of water, Hedley Tarn, where patient birds dive for trout. When Charlie suggests we cut across country to re-join the return track above the Blue Lake, I am initially nervous - what if the clouds descend even further? After carefully checking the map, though, we decide to embrace the challenge.
I try to think about fearless Charlotte Adams as we pick our way carefully across lichen-stained boulders, marveling at the infinite variety of cushiony grasses and the reflective pools of melted snow all around us. My anxiety melts too and I can even summon a smile when Charlie points out a rock shaped like an American Indian’s face, complete with feathered headdress. By the time we reach the return path my lungs feel expansive enough to try a spot of alpine yodeling.
Day Two we drive to the busy holiday village of Thredbo and catch the Kosciuszko Express Chairlift to the top of the mountain. Our destination is Dead Horse Gap, a largely downhill walk of about ten kilometers. On the way up I venture the yodelling chorus from ‘The Lonely Goatherd’ and a man standing beneath our chairlift responds by opening his arms wide and hollering ‘The hills are alive with the sound of music’.
Above the tree line at Ram’s Head Range the three of us turn in slow Sufi-like circles, taking in the 360 degree views of the Snowy Mountains banked up against the skyline. The wise woman is right about the curative effect of those horizons. I’m surprised she hasn’t mentioned the benefits of yodeling too.
Then down we go along the gently winding track through silvery stands of dead gums. Fierce bushfires in 2003 have left these trees looking like bleached coral stranded thousands of metres above sea level. At Dead Horse Gap we find a warm flat rock for our picnic lunch, then walk back to the village along the Thredbo River path. Pairs of brown trout chase each other in circles just under the surface, inspiring us to take a gasping dip in the shallow icy river.
Day Three involves a trip back to Victoria and a much-needed rest for our legs. Tom Groggin, west of Dead Horse Gap and close to the Murray River, is a popular camping spot. Four-wheel drivers can ford the shallow river there but as our car only has two-wheel drive we put on our bathers, hoist our rucksacks and wade across the stony riverbed into our home state.
On the edge of the Alpine National Park the three of us lie under a shady tree and read books all afternoon. In between chapters we watch a kingfisher defending its territory against wattlebird incursions. On the drive back we stop at dusk and walk down into a grassy valley where a dozen wild brumbies stare at us in panic before taking off into the forest.
Day Four is another tough climb. From the Guthega Dam (on the confluence of the Munyang and Snowy Rivers) we clamber northwards up a narrow overgrown path, looking for the trig point of the ridge. Sadness has snuck back into my rucksack overnight and with every step it seems to be getting heavier. Just as my legs and lungs are about to go on strike we reach the summit. There are those breath-taking horizons again, and not another human in sight. Yodelling is beyond me but smiling becomes possible again.
On the final day of our holiday we drive into town and find a shady park beside the Jindabyne Lake. The weather is steamy and the water almost warm compared to the body-shock of Thredbo River. I strike out towards the middle of the lake and tread water there for a while, looking back at the sun-bleached fields surrounding Jindabyne town. Treading water: that’s how you deal with grief. Not waving, not drowning, just waiting till you catch your breath and you’re ready to head back to shore.
This travel article was first published in The Age/SMH.