We had seen the weather forecast for the days ahead, so were pleased to find on waking that the rain had not yet arrived. Clouds were gathering and we did not wish to spend the week waiting for the promised wet weather to clear, so set off early with the eski and warm clothes packed up in the landcruiser.
The road to Mount Buller from Mansfield is only forty four kilometres, and passes through more lovely farmland on the eastern side of Mansfield, before climbing up over a low ridge and descending down into the valley cut out by the Delatite River which rises in the foothills of Mount Buller. It is such a pretty road, all sealed and wide enough for any traffic we passed, even as it winds the last fourteen kilometres steeply up the side of the mountain.
Mount Buller is Victoria’s largest and best alpine skiing resort, and rises to 1,805 metres above sea level. From the road, all the alpine ash is tall, green and healthy, seemingly untouched by past fires, as are the snow gums nearer the village. It is not until further exploration that one finds the gums on Little Mount Buller, slightly to the south west bearing the scars of fires in 2006. This smaller sibling rises only to 1,558 metres. Here at the ski resort, there are twenty four lifts, including a new six-seater Holden chairlift (the first of its kind in Australia) giving access to 18 hectares of ski trails. The skiers arrive in their masses, and there are 7,000 beds waiting to accommodate them with all the restaurants and cafes at their service. I was certainly impressed by the scale of the operation, but then I have only seen those smaller resorts over the past week and others in New Zealand.
Obviously the only people up there this morning were others like us, and the many many tradesmen who are working in a frenzy to have the many brand new extensions and buildings ready for the onslaught of the snow bunnies.
We drove as far as we could toward the summit and then climbed the last one hundred metres or so, fighting the cold wind all the way. At times, when a gust came, I had to stand with my back to the wind and feet firmly on the ground, so not to be blown off the side of the mountain. It was not quite as terrifying as walking to the lighthouse at Castlepoint on New Zealand’s Wairarapa coast can be.
After returning to the car, we drove back down into the village and checked out the public shelter which spells out some of the history of the area. The first leasehold graziers came up into the mountain in 1873, and it was not until the 1920s that the mountain was seen as a skier’s destination. After the Second World War, the one lodge had fallen into disrepair and it was decided that more should be done to develop the ski resort, and the rest was history. Chris was here about forty years ago and was impressed with the commercial aspect of it then, however it was not a patch on what it is today.
Already the dark clouds were rolling in and it was not at all pleasant to be outside the vehicle. We drove back down the very winding road and had our lunch at a lovely spot at Mirimbah; all that is left of a mill which operated from 1935 through to the 1970s. Sheltered by tall gums, we sat beside the beautiful Delatite River and enjoyed the last of the good weather for the day. By the time we arrived back in Mansfield, rain had already started to fall and the rest of the day was spent holed up with the newspaper, maps and other like paraphernalia.
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