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Our 21 day riding holiday began in the Victorian city of Melbourne. After a marathon flight, during which we "lost" a day crossing the international dateline, we spent three night's R&R at a lovely hotel, using daytime to cruise the river on a boat, explore the oceanside in a bus, shop the Pacific Rim opal and "outback" stores via foot, and wonder at the awesome exhibit which included the stuffed body of Pharlap, Australia's premier race horse, at the Melbourne Museum of Natural History. Any country which idolizes horses as Australia does can't be all bad.
The Snowy Mountains are a ski resort in the wintertime... June through September. But our January weather was experiencing a heatwave at 29 degrees Celsius. Thank goodness, the weather cooled appreciably as we climbed higher into the Bluff range above the Howqua Valley to begin our riding trek.
Our first and last nights were to be spent at the Stock Yard, which was, ...you guessed it... an old stock yard. We bunked co-ed with a roof over our heads, and ate at a long shepherds table. (Not to worry... they did offer a couple private cabins, so the newlyweds didn't share too much of their honeymoon with the rest of us!) Flush toilets and hot showers were among the amenities at this verdant camp by the creek. The first day, we were introduced to our horses...always a tense moment on trips like these.
I'd switched outfitters from my other two trips to the Snowys mainly because of the horses. Nobody wants a slug of a horse, but also, no one wants to be bucked off ten thousand miles away from home. I immediately felt at ease when I met up with my lovely little chestnut Arabian mare. The only thing wrong with her was her name..."Silly", after her former owner. Within the hour, her name had been changed to "California". Sure footed, fit and definitely sensible, she carried me safely through rivers, over fallen trees, and down mountain passes. (But I'm getting ahead of my story.) Others in our group were equally happy with their mounts, which were primarily of the Aussie stock horse type, showing a good bit of Arab influence, quite a few with Appy touches. As for the tack... I rode English, as I do at home. None of us had brought our own saddles, as I had on previous trips. Others tried out Aussie saddles with varying success. Unless you are used to the rigid thigh guards, riding in forward balance and posting the trot in an Australian stock saddle can be difficult without incurring some fairly sore bruises.
On our very first "try out the steering and brakes" ride, climbing a spectacular ridge before sunset, we watched kangaroos and wallabies bound down the mountain side. But we were all relieved to find our horses preferred to pick their way slowly down the steep grade, ending our first excursion with a collective "whew..." as we realized we could in fact look forward to a safe adventure. During the remainder of our trek, we really came to appreciate our mounts' sensible natures and athletic ability.
Case led the way, next morning after a hearty breakfast in the StockYard Hut, heading up the Howqua Valley, fording back and forth across the river under gigantic Eucalyptus. Over 300 varieties of these piquant smelling trees populate Australia; we rode under many vastly different types during our two weeks of treks. Most of us Americans were safely and sanely wearing protective riding helmets... but, I must say, our Aussie wranglers sure looked more authentic in photos in their slouched Akubras. But photos be damned... I was certainly glad I had my Troxel on after lunch when Case asked if anyone was up for a bit of a gallop. He mentioned that those who did not want to jump the fallen trees across the trail could just rein their horses around them. (Yeah,... right! When's the last time you were able to turn your horse to the side when all the horses in front were thundering forward?) Maybe now is the time to mention that I, a professional horse trainer, have an inordinate fear of jumping. Yes, I did the high ones when I was a kid, and I school my horses in a very structured way over low ones now. But Arabians are not known for their jumping ability...(maybe I could trade for one of those Appies?...) and my heart was in my throat when I envisioned us reenacting the famous chase scene from the movie, flying over toppled timber, ducking low lying branches, dashing through twisting streams.
However, that's exactly what we did! California absolutely sailed. The first few fallen trees were only a couple feet high, giving me time to gain confidence. When I caught a glance of the behemoth that followed, I gasped and started see-sawing the reins. But Jill, hot on my heels, yelled out "You can do it, Lari!"... and away we flew. I heard a few hoots and hollers as others exhilarated in the run. There must have been 25 or 30 jumps in all... most pretty close to the ground...and I found out after we stopped that Liam and Matt, our auxilliary wranglers, had shepherded the novice riders around the more sizable ones.
The next few days we climbed ever higher into the mountains, with increasingly spectacular views awaiting us around every twist in the trail. Nights were spent enjoying terrific food, singing and telling jokes around the campfire. (What do you get when you cross a donkey with an onion?) Case is the only man I've ever met who knows all the words to "I Feel Pretty" from West Side Story.
Remember Kirk Douglas's gold mining hut from the movie? We ate lunch there at the top of the continent one day. And although we did ride beyond the bluff....we only took pictures of down the other side. Our farewell dinner/dance back at the Stockyard lasted into the wee hours, and it was really tough the next morning to "bid the mob g'day."
Tropical Brisbane was next on our itinerary, where we rested at the upscale Hillcrest Hotel, shopped the bazaar, and sampled XXXX (Four-Ex) beer. Anticipation built for our coming adventure with Bob Sample's "Horse Trek Australia".
Bob is one of the world's premier horsemen. He breeds and raises some of Australia's best endurance horses at his Sharahd Endurance Stud, infusing just enough Thoroughbred blood to add size and length of stride to his exceptional Arabians. Developing for six generations, his horses have won most of the honors available in Endurance in Australia. Having placed in every position from second to tenth on the Tom Quilty 100 Mile Endurance Race in the past decade, Bob had the great pleasure of winning it in 1993, cantering across the line with his son, Brook, a nose behind. Brook had previously won the Quilty as a teenager on another of the Sharahd horses, and represented Australia to place 8th at last summer's World Equestrian Games at The Hague, Netherlands. In Australia, Brook rides his bay Arab, Cavalier, without any head gear whatsoever, guiding him as much with mental telepathy as with the simple loop that lays around the horse's lower neck. Although Bob's partner, Vanessa, also rides her lovely chestnut mare in the same gear, our trek horses were outfitted with rope riding halters which Bob macrames himself. No bits, no bozals, no mechanical hackamores... just sensitive, well trained horses guided without force. More than a few of our party wondered if they would be able to stop these elite endurance animals once we moved out on the trail.
And what a trail it was! Twice the site of the Tom Quilty itself (which moves every year), we meandered through pristine rain forest, riding Bob's horses to the test as we trotted and cantered miles up dirt roads and trails in northwest Queensland, far outside the quaint town of Maleny. The tack was in brand new condition, and offered excellent comfort, since Bob custom orders saddles with the thigh guards placed well forward, allowing riders to rise to the trot in balance. And lo and behold... the horses stopped when asked.
Some memories of Horse Trek Australia are surely unique. Our camp each night was in a grassy meadow by a river in the middle of a national park. Each evening we'd swim languidly in the warm waters, as unbelievable bird songs serenaded from the surrounding trees. Have you ever been awakened by the laugh of the kookaburra in the morning? No way can you help but get up with a big grin on your face. There were no insects ....maybe because it was paradise. Not that any of us were tenderfoot campers, but we did relish the luxury of spacious outhouses and canvas shower stalls. And George even enjoyed cuddling with a sleepy young carpet python he found while on his morning constitutional early one day.
As a matter of fact, in the three treks I've ridden with Bob Sample, he's never failed to find humongous pythons along the trail for us to fondle. His modus operandi is to spot a big snake...6 to 8 feet long, and as big around as his arm seems about average....and check to see if the snake has eaten recently by shaking his hat in front of the snake's face. If it strikes, it's hungary; we look elsewhere. If it's about as active as a stuffed animal, and has a tell-tale bulge in its belly, it's safe to play with. Bob wraps it around his shoulders, we shriek and squirm, and eventually everyone gets up the nerve to pet the sleeping serpent. Our horses seem oblivious as one by one we dismount to drape the comatose monster like a boa around us, all the better to have our pictures taken. Bob says only once has he had to ask for help to be unwrapped, when a sinuous reptile constricted tighter and tighter as he struggled to set it free.
Our first evening, the sound of hooves surprised us as 25 endurance riders trotted past our camp. No, it was not the finishing miles of a 100 Miler. It was the beginning of a 50. In Australia, in order to avoid the worst heat of day, many rides begin either at dusk or at midnight. I'm sure it keeps the horses cooler, but I certainly would hate missing the fantastic scenery.
June Peterson, bronze medal winner for Australia at the 1990 World Equestrian Games in Stockholm, joined us to ride and swap tales for three days. A great-grandmother, June has won the Quilty and nearly every other major event in Australia at least once. Like Bob, she utilizes many holistic modalities, from Biolights to herbal treatments, in training and caring for her horses. However, neither she nor Bob had ridden with heart monitors before, so we enjoyed messing around with the two I brought. Australian endurance horses in general, and Bob's in particular, have phenomenal pulse recovery rates. Aussies worry if their horse's heart rate hovers in the 50's, let alone the 60's, at a vet check, and expect recoveries into the low 40's shortly after finishing a 50 miler.
June was my tent-mate during an African riding safari last year; we've ridden the Race of Champions together in the States, and crewed for our respective teams at the Hague, so we now have four continents together under our belts. I think I'd follow her anywhere...but I'd have a heck of a time passing her!
Our third night at camp, with a totally straight face, Bob offered a night ride in order to dine at Dealbata Host Farm, a B & B run by fellow endurance enthusiasts... just through the jungle, over Maleny Plateau, and down the other side. Those who preferred could travel in the land rover. Knowing what was coming, I kept mum, but encouraged the more adventurous to ride. As usual, everyone expected a mellow walk through the moonlight. Hahhh!!! Not 30 yards out of camp, Bob yelled "Trot on", and our mounts picked up endurance speed. Tendrils of leaves brushed our cheeks; the ground undulated under our trusty steeds' hooves; the narrow trail twisted and turned through the rain forest. Moon? Not a speck of light permeated the inky blackness.
And out of the dark came the plaintive cry, "Danny....Danny...are you there, Danny?!? It was Harry, "Mr. Machismo," from Ontario, Canada. He who had ridden on every continent, including the Tevis trail, had lost sight of the white shirt of the rider in front of him. Danny held his silence as long as he could, then exploded in gleeful mirth. For the rest of the ride the night's silence was punctuated by mimicking cries of "Danny, where are you, Danny?" You could swear you heard the wild dingo cry.
Reward for our brave adventurers came in the form of a delectable meal served by attentive hosts at Dealbata. As a matter of fact, we were all so enchanted by the lovely ambiance and comfortable quarters that we've decided to follow Bob's advice, and will lodge at Dealbata Host Farm instead of tent camping when we return to Australia in December of 1995. After all, we ride darn hard during the day....we deserve to be pampered at night! Bird songs will still surround us, and rivers for swimming are nearby.
Our lone night at Dealbata this year held a special delight, as Bob treated us to a personal history of endurance riding in Australia, and his experiences on the Quilty Race. There wasn't a dry eye in the house when Bob and Brook held aloft the Quilty trophy as the popular song (in some circles) "Ballad of Tom Quilty" blared over the loudspeaker. And then we enjoyed a mellow midnight ride home.
Amazingly, we never rode the same trail twice in six long days on the Maleny Plateau. And on a continent the size of the United States, with only 19 million inhabitants, you don't run into other people. I'm sure I wasn't alone in thinking it just doesn't get any better than there.
If it had to end, Fiji was the perfect way to do it. Four days in thatched roof burras on Malololailai Island at Muscat Cove Resort, complete with traditional feasts and artwork, snorkeling the coral barrier reefs, wind surfing, and Hobie Cat sailing added up to a marvelous finale. My sail board instructor assured me I didn't need to know how to turn the thing... I'd fall off 'way before sailing out of our cove into the Pacific. But somehow that absolute balanced state I'd never found sailing over fences on the back of a horse came to me there in the middle of the blue, and I headed out towards Hawaii. Imagine my chagrin when the world's champion wind-surfer, who happened conveniently to be anchoring his yacht in the bay, noticed my anguished cries as I sailed by, and radioed Muscat Cove to send motorized rescue. Oh well, I'd survived being a tourist in foreign cities, riding where the Man from Snowy River didn't fear to tread, and followed in the hoofprints of some of the world's top endurance riders. Maybe I could just relax and let this handsome Fijian hunk drag me back to shore. |
