We spent the next day holed up in the caravan, venturing out only briefly to the local general store at Porepunkah, for the newspaper. By afternoon the rain had eased a little, thus promising better weather for the morrow. Our one accomplishment of the day was to make Skype contact with Chris’s sister to wish her and her husband our congratulations and best wishes for their fiftieth wedding anniversary to be celebrated in England the next day.
On Saturday morning, our optimism was rewarded. The rain had abated overnight, the lake outside our caravan had disappeared, and while the hills all about were still shrouded in thick cloud, it was promising enough to set off into Bright for a few fresh vegetables and of course the important weekend newspaper.
On arrival, we discovered the weekly market underway down in the riverside park. Markets should never be ignored even if only wandered through with one’s hands in pockets, as we did. This market was not the common variety flea market but an upmarket collection of classy boutique wares; olive oils, wine, jewellery, paintings, fresh fruit and vegetables at inflated market prices, chocolates, cupcakes, coffee, assorted nuts, more coffee and even more importantly, stall holders announcing that the sun was forecasted to shine before the end of the day.
We wandered beyond the market area to discover charming parklands all along the river and decided that we simply must investigate further, but not today. If the weather was indeed to improve to a state of “sunny”, we had other plans for the afternoon.
The Information Centre was close-by and proved to be well worth the visit, having a very good display of matters alpine, including a DVD explaining the history and natural wonders of the Alpine National Park.
Bright at 319 metres above sea level is a township of only about three thousand people, although the number of residences suggest more. Like all tourist destinations, the number of beds in the town does not reflect the number of permanent residents. In the summer, people come for the proximity to the Victorian Alps and Mount Buffalo National Park, and in the winter, the same, albeit for different activities. Like all rail trails, cycling trails constructed from disused rail tracks, the tourist industry that springs up needs to grow quickly to keep up with its reputation. Bright reminded us of New Zealand’s Hamner Springs, without the thermal springs, but with a rail trail. This likeness may be misleading however I would suggest that there are few differences between the clientele.
Bright, initially known as Morse’s Creek, is located at the confluence of the Oven’s River and Morse’s Creek, and started its life as a small rural service area in the midst of the sheep and cattle grazing, but was soon replaced as a goldfield centre in about 1853. As most of the goldfields, it drew many from China, and also as many of the stories we have come across as we have criss-crossed Victoria, it became the location of yet another historical crisis; the Morse’s Creek Riots.
By the late 1850s, Chinese miners dominated the alluvial diggings. After the Buckland Riots of 1857, just up the road from here, anti-Chinese feelings festered on the diggings. In April 1859, the Chinese camp here in Bright was attacked by a group of European miners. The Chinese were driven off their claims and the camp was looted and burnt. One miner, Ah Sang, was bludgeoned to death and another severely injured. Despite attempts to trivialise the incident, authorities took a dim view, and three months later, a new camp was laid out in an attempt to protect these miners. It is estimated that between 1200 and 1400 Chinese were then working on the upper Ovens River. It is interesting that there is so much repetition in the general history of these gold rush days here in Victoria.
After purchasing some wonderful bread from the bakery and a few items from the Woolworths supermarket, we made our way back to the caravan park, had an early lunch and then set off up into the Mount Buffalo National Park, the end of the road near the summit our goal, a distance of thirty six kilometres.
As we wound our way up the steep road into the mountains, we could not help but notice the abundance of water spilling down the mountainside, over the high cliffs and over the wonderful granite outcrops. Yesterday’s rain was a bonus to our sightseeing and had not adversely affected access.
We called into the National Park historic chalet and the lookout opposite, out over the Gorge, from which we had spectacular views from the sheer cliff side. Bent’s Lookout is at an altitude of 1,300 metres above sea level and a collection of structures perched out over the ledge.
We drove on up the road toward the Horn, but were advised that the road was closed three kilometres from the top. When we reached the road block, we quizzed the barrier keeper who explained that a helicopter was working further up and was anxious not to drop his cargo on tourists, however he should be finished in half an hour or so. We took the opportunity to don our walking boots and head up a track to the Cathedral, a great pile of impressive rocks from where we could see great areas of snow gums bravely fighting the elements. Here great fires swept through in 1985 and so the dead trees are lying more prostrate than those up further in the alpine park.
When we descended to the car park, the man with the orange cones had gone, and so we resumed our drive to the top. The Horn is 1,723 metres above sea level, and is another high rocky outcrop above a lookout at the car park. This time, we packed water into the day pack, in case we should perish in the heat part way up, and then found a barrier on the track with a notice to say it was closed. Two young women had preceded us so we pressed on despite the barrier, only to come to yet another repeating the same. Being law abiding citizens (well, Chris is), we gave up and instead engaged in lengthy conversation with half a dozen other grey headed tourists, travelling from the Hunter Valley in New South Wales.
On our return, we pulled in to the manmade Lake Catani and the ski fields of Cresta Valley, all rather deserted and waiting for the influx of skiers during the “declared snow season”. We returned also to Bent’s Lookout over the Canyon, now devoid of the masses and now also with better visibility. When we had called in earlier in the afternoon, there had been periods of rising cloud between moments of clarity. We also walked along Crystal Brook to where the creek falls dramatically off the top of the mountain plunging 200 metres to the rocks below.
After this there was nothing but to return to camp and agree that the mountains of Bright were just wonderful and had to be on any Must-do list for Victoria.
This morning dawned cloudless, or at least was so by the time we slug-a-beds poked our heads outside. We had debated the number of days we needed to book further, and finally decided that beyond the original two and an extension of two more, another one should do. And so today was the last in Bright and should be well spent. Lunch was packed into the eski and we belatedly set out toward Bright, detouring up to the Tower Hill lookout, a modestly signed track up into forestry. A car park under a power pylon suggested this might be the destination; however the view over Bright was divided into sections by the massive power lines. The track continued, hopefully further up, but in fact took us into a timber felling working area. We returned to the main road and pressed on to our next destination: Wandilidong.
This is a small settlement up the Morse’s Creek valley, with oodles of gold mining history and today, home to fruit and nut orchards. Armed with walking maps, we parked at the centre, beside the once-upon-a-time-general store, more-recently-sometimes post office, now closed, and walked down into the old diggings area. The track was poorly maintained and much of it had been destroyed by flooding over the past years. A meeting of interested local residents was in progress down by the creek, in the hope of motivating money and effort. We discreetly moved on in an effort to find the Chinese Swing Bridge. Alas, access to this and the more commercial tourism attraction, the Maze, were closed and so we returned on the same route, poached some apples from a tree badly neglected by all but codling moth, where we were caught out by a local orchardist returning from the local community meeting (referred to above). He suggested we might end up with bad stomachs by eating the stolen apples, however we were able to assure him they tasted fine; he of course had a vested interest, his apples codling free and commercially viable. We chatted for some time, assuring him that his Australia was not boringly the same, but a magical land that inspired us greatly, and was well worth taking the effort to tour.
We finally parted, wishing each other good lives and good health, and headed back toward Bright. We had paused on the Wandilidong Road earlier and watched paragliders land on a flat road side paddock. We wanted to investigate this further, and so on our return, turned up Mystic Lane toward the Huggins Lookout. This was a gravel forestry road, better than the one travelled earlier in the morning, and as we turned in the opposite direction from the Lookout, even more utilitarian. We wound our way up the hill, to a point 737 metres above sea level, from where alpine paragliding and mountain biking tours launch themselves off the heights. An hour and a half later, having lunched and spent an hour or more conversing with an aficionado, we were so much more informed as to the activities carried on here.
Apparently one can pay about a couple of grand and enjoy a nine day course of paragliding obtaining a ticket as a temporary pilot. The price includes the tuition, the “hire” of the equipment, transport up and down Mystic Hill and a whole lot of fun. The young Melburnian whose wife had come along as an observer only was well satisfied with the service and was enjoying his last days throwing himself off the hill, despite the pain from what he suspected was a broken rib. We watched one head off with a corner of his “wing” entangled in the mass of cords, and hoped as he glided toward the landing pad, he would land safely. We watched a couple of others head off running from the launching pad, hop step and jump, and land on their well-padded bottoms with their chutes falling in a confused mess around them. We also watched others launch successfully and fly high above in the thermals for the duration. The possibility of a tandem flight did greatly appeal, but without a good reason such as a decade-birthday, it seemed a frivolous wish. But do watch this space in the years to come!
We finally tore ourselves away from this excitement and descended to Bright, where we donned our walking boots and set off down along the Ovens River to do the Canyon Walk. This was far less civilised than my expectation, proving the existence of canyon status which I had doubted. The river has carved its way through the valley and flows fiercely on toward the Murray even in its upper reaches here. This entire area was hugely mined for gold, mostly through sluicing and dredging. From the years from 1900 to 1955, fifty five dredges operated here, even changing the whole route of the river. Today as we walked down river, we passed over dozens of water races cut by hand by those tireless miners.
At one point we encountered a couple of dogs, one fierce and small, the other of the kind I consider worthy of extinction, his strong shoulders and the black patch over his eye even more intimidating in the absence of owner. They greeted us aggressively; we reciprocated with soft greetings, immediately ignored. Fortunately there were pieces of stick lying about which we armed ourselves with. At that point, the larger dog turned and ran off, his smaller friend resigned to follow. We continued the route thus armed until we came upon fellow walkers on the return up the other side of the river who assured us there were no dogs ahead. In this country of snakes and spiders, who would think to arm themselves against domestic dogs?
On our return to camp, we were pleased to make contact, albeit with terrible Skype reception, with my parents. We are now better prepared to head off in the morning.
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