National Bicentennial Trail

“Terrifying Mt.Terrible”

Victorian High country

April 22nd/23rd  

There were warnings of abandoned mine shafts and rumors of panthers lurking in the bush. 
And Toey would disappear....

There was trepidation about climbing Mt. Terrible.
It was said to be a tough trip over Mt.Terrible to Gaffney’s Creek with not enough water for horses, so they must go the full distance without a drink.

 A little over a kilometre to the northeast along the ridge of Mt. Terrible Track, I decide to call it a day.

I was a bit worried about my horses. I woke up several times during the night but at some point I could no longer hear their bells… surely they couldn’t have gone far with their hobbles on. My anxiousness increased to near panic. I heard a distant neigh from somewhere.

 When I crawled out of my tent just before dawn I found Swaggie standing about 50 metres along the track. His head was drooping and he was looking down to the right. When he saw me his head shot up and he gave a relieved neigh. There was no Toey to be seen or heard. I knew that for me to find him might prove to be quite a challenge. “T-o-e-y… T-o-e-y!” No response. Swaggie and I searched along Mt. Terrible Track, continuing quite a way, then back again and again. Interestingly, whenever we came to the point where Swaggie was this morning he stopped, his whole body tensed, he was acutely alert, looking down the ridge where he obviously believed Toey to be. I tied Swaggie’s to a tree, and scrambled down the ridge.

 At least a bright sun warmed the early morning, and a blue sky is spaned the canopy of rustling tree tops. It promised to be a picture perfect day but it was marred by the absence of Toey.  What happened? Had his sometimes unpredictable behaviour to do with his disappearance? I had to make one more attempt at locating Toey. Having recorded Swaggie’s neigh, I turned on my tape recorder to its loudest setting and half tumbled down the ridge again, hoping Swaggie’s plaintive call would draw a response from Toey. There was none. Realizing the futility of searching alone I saddled Swaggie, hid my gear and headed for the hamlet of Kevington.

 After hours of scrambling down the steep, stony and deep-rutted Poletti Track, it was with a sense of relief that we saw the sign reading “Kevington”.  A handful of wooden houses sat on an elevated bank to the right. At the upper end of this road, backing onto the river, stood the long, low-verandah of the pub presumptuously referred to as the ‘Kevington Hilton’.

I sat down at the pub’s only outdoor table, weary and desperate, my fingers holding the lead rope of my horse.
Someone pushed a sandwich and a Coke in front of me and a friendly voice encouraged me to eat and drink. “We kinda heard what’s happened. We’ll find your horse. No worries.”
“Count on us… no worries… she’ll be right.”

 By 2 o’clock a temporary fence was soon set up for Swaggie close to the hotel.

Our small search party was at last ready. We all clambered into a rickety 4WD ute. Local horse girl Michelle and I crammed next to the driver in the front, a few blokes, a case of beer and a Blue Heeler occupied the ute tray. Having negotiated steep hills and deep-rutted tracks we came to a bouncing halt at our destination, just below the top of Mt Terrible. After a brief and futile search for Toey dusk began to fall. “Tomorrow we’ll find him… don’t worry… we’ll find him”, my new companions promised.

 It was Sunday morning.  I believed very strongly we would find my horse!
I was eating my second round of breakfast when the obviously hung-over rescue team from yesterday showed up.
We put our heads together, planned a strategy to deal with Toey when, or if, we find him.
“I called Bernie McWhinney, the local Larrikin cop, this morning”, Michelle announced, “He suggested that we take his float along so we can transport your horse to his place.
 “Better get started then”, the red-bearded fellow from yesterday suggested.

 With float attached, the ute was slow in getting up the range, requiring low gear until we reached the top. Once there, the four of us spread out, cooeeing loudly, searching, driving back and forth, and combing all sides of the trail. Then a cry from Michelle came from below the spot where Swaggie had kept vigil.

 “I got him! I found Toey… I got him… we’re coming up!” We rushed to the spot, to see the girl with my horse appearing through the underbrush and ferns. I was shaken at the sight of Toey. With flanks hollow from dehydration, he looked like skin and bone. He had deep gashes on his chest and right shoulder, crusted over with dried dirt, blood and pus. He must have had some bad falls. I felt such pity for him. Michelle dropped the hobbles next to the water bucket. “They were still on him. He was hooked up on a log”. “Only sips for now” I warned him, gingerly hugging my friend. Michelle squatted next to poor Toey who is distressed and disoriented.

 “Looks pretty bad to me”, commented Bernie McWhinney when he walked around Toey later. “We’ll have a vet look at him tomorrow. I don’t know...” he added, shaking his head. “But at least he’s eating”.

 The next day the vet’s diagnosis confirmed Bernie’s prediction. It was too late to stitch up the deep injury on Toey’s chest. “It’ll be six to eight weeks before those muscles have healed, and then he will need time to build them up again. He’ll need rest, attention and good feed”.

 As I sat crestfallen at the table in Bernie’s kitchen sipping a cup of tea he suggested. “You only have two options. One is to wait it out, and by that I not only mean the horse’s healing process but the winter, too. By the time he recovers it’ll be the end of June and then snow can fall at any time on the higher ranges - unless you want to transport around them once your horse is ok.”
“No way”, I quickly replied. “I want to ride the trail all the way.”
“Well then, your other option is to buy another horse and continue with your trek. You can leave Toey here for the time being, I’ll look after him”.

Everyone was right about Bernie – what a guy!

Bernie then offered to help me find a suitable horse.”‘If that’s what you want”, he added, looking at me questioningly.

 Reflecting on how wonderfully my donkey and horse had complimented each other during my European trek in 1982 I replied: “Yeah, Bernie, but… could you instead help me find a donkey, or even better, a mule?”

“A … what?”

 …and so, a mule entered our lives and with him, oh, what surprises would follow!