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Of course it never rains in northern Victoria! Part One of our High Country DVD trip.

Words by Jonh Rooth
Photography by Robb Cox

"Roothy? Mate, do you reckon the Handbrake could handle you away again for a couple of weeks? Ant's been going on about the High Country since we got back from Tassie, ARB wants to test some more new products and Terry Smith's just brought in some brand-new Coopers he reckons plug mud like nothing this side of the moon." "Bung that lot together and we've got a recipe for some fun. What d'ya reckon? Can you get away?"

The Handbrake loomed over me as if she knew escape was on the cards. Having had to prod me awake with her foot - I was in the shed, asleep on the old mattress I keep handy for mowing the lawn and other gardening-type activities - she'd stopped short of belting me in the ear with the Pat-phone, probably because he would have heard. She's got a lot of respect for Editor Pat. Actually, she's got a lot of respect for any bloke with a real job. Pity she didn't marry one of them...

"Geez, Pat, I dunno. Milo's missing a few bits right now, the lawn needs mowing and you know how I hate having to leave the cheese and kisses on her own. But if you order me to go, well I'll have to, won't I?"
"She's listening, huh?" said Pat.
"You've got it." That Pat's sharper than a Chinese can-opener. "So when's bingo? Still 3pm for a couple of hours? Call you then, eh?"

Beauty, another trip away! Life doesn't get any better than that! I tried real hard to look miserable as I passed the phone back.
"Where to this time?" she said with that total knowledge that wives must be born with. Or maybe it's exceptional hearing...
"Some place called the High Country down in Vicbloodytoria. It's all Ant's fault, he's always raving about the bloody place. Oh well, at least there won't be too many people down there now I guess, seeing as most of them have moved up here."
"So what's the High Country anyway?" "A whole lot of mud and a bunch of hills I think, and probably plenty of river crossings because it always rains in Victoria. I've heard it can get pretty dangerous; flash floods big enough to carry cars away, ridge-top tracks with 1000ft drops either side and snap snow storms that'll freeze a man where he stands." "C'mon," she said, "I'll help you pack...".

Packing wasn't the hard part, getting Milo ready was. For me it started off as a two-day roar down the Newell Highway while Milo was sucked along by the trucks. It was stinking hot out past Goondiwindi and Moree, and the sun burnt hard all the way through to Albury, too. No matter how many times I make that run, it never fails to impress on me how massive our country is. And talk about extremes...

Which sounds like a good time to meet the extreme team selected for this trip! Up front was the Antman himself having bagged - okay, so they made him do it - a new GU Patrol wagon partly outfitted by ARB. Now Ant needs no introduction on these hallowed pages. A veteran traveller, died-in-the-diff-locks off-roader and true friend of the High Country, he was the perfect man to have on point. Armed with maps and a GPS, Ant was handling the navigation, so I was quick to confirm he'd included coordinates for some good drinking holes along the way. Man does not live on food alone! Not in Queensland anyway. Talking Queensland, my old mate Peter Watts - who owns half of Queensland but chooses to live in Melbourne, how weird is that? - was sitting next to Ant, nursing a hundred kilos of TV camera. Having just returned from the Amazon, where he'd been filming the nose-picking habits of the ring-tailed numbat for an ABC doco, Wattsy is the odd man out on these excursions. Yep, he's a true professional. He works hard, he's as fit as a mountain goat, he always knows what he's doing and he drinks wine out of bottles. Really weird huh? Fortunately, he loves his four-wheel driving! Also having made the run up from Melbourne was another ARB vehicle - a spankers new Prado in glistening white. Now the latest Prados look about as tough as ladies underwear in standard form, but the addition of some choice ARB products had this baby looking ready for off-road action. That made sense, because behind the wheel was Mark 'Lowmount' Lowry, veteran off-roader, serious winch competitor and an engineer heavily involved in product design and testing at ARB HQ in Kilsyth.

Lowmount earned his wings in Tasmania, where he put his boss Andy Brown's 79 Series through hell and high water. Especially the high salt water. Amazingly he's still got a job at ARB, even after the rust spots started to show but then ARB's corporate culture encourages blokes to go as hard as they can off-road. There's an old saying at ARB - 'if anyone's going to bust our stuff, it'll be us first!'. It was great to see Mark again. Calm in the face of pressure, sure with the spanners and a devil after dark with a beer in his hand; Mark's good travelling company anytime. In the Prado's passenger seat was an old mate of mine, fellow Queenslander Damian 'Damo' Rennick, who's now pushing the Exclusive Tyres Distribution barrow down in Victoria. Why? Because after he was spotted charging yet another company four-wheel drive through a mud bash at the Park, his boss Terry Smith ordered the ultimate punishment for any Sunshine Stater. Yep, he banished him to Victoria...

Damo was along to check the performance of the brand-new Coopers Discoverer STTs we'd fitted to the GU, the Prado and Toyota 45 Milo. Especially imported by Exclusive for testing under Australian conditions, these tyres had been prompting comment wherever I'd pulled up down the Newell. Ant's flicking that coin, so I'll leave it to him, but it was great to have Damo along for more reasons than one. Apart from an incredible product knowledge that sees him spouting tyre sizes and tread-pattern rationale with more gush than a warm can of VB, Damo's an absolute ratbag. He had the quiet Lowmount giggling all week and the rest of us in near tears around the fire. Even with his clothes on... Yep, only one vehicle was missing, Editor Pat's 'Suzi by HiLux by Holden' buggy, Otis. Sitting at the truck stop in Albury, we watched as the clock got closer to noon. Then someone spotted Pat's mountain-high Hunjy with the trailer on the back and we were complete. Editor Pat needs no introduction but here's my chance, so what the hell. He's a big guy with a big smile that grows bigger whenever things look like getting tough. Got a bottomless boghole? Found a hill that's steeper than a steeple? Maybe some Grand Canyon-sized ruts? Pat's your man. His driving philosophy is simple, why walk it when you can punch it and go! The bloke who does need an introduction is 4WD Action's new shooter, ex-professional footy player Robb Cox. Fit, ferocious and deadly accurate, Coxy built a gun career shooting rally cars before going back to his personal love of off-road driving and the photography of same. Apart from a rather sad preference for Land Rovers, Coxy's about as sane as the next bloke - if he's a VB-wielding maniac anyway. We needed him on this trip, though. The problem with most photographers is that they always want you to 'do it again' while they pansy around playing with their lenses. Coxy's rally bred ability to nail the shot first time soon proved to be invaluable in those hills where most of the time there was no chance of going back!

Seven men, four vehicles, we were almost there. After 'swapping the load around' - old Victorian saying meaning 'load all your spare sh*t into the dirty old 45 Toyota' - we were almost ready. Almost? Yeah, four fridges and no beer! We left Albury and headed south-east on the Great Alpine Road. It was still bright in Bright, almost hot in Hotham, Slippery Pinch definitely wasn't and Ormeo looked nothing like the inside of a washing machine. This is beautiful country on a sunny day, and I remember thinking how lucky we were to be here in the hottest part of the year. Then, while climbing through Omeo late in the afternoon, I noticed the smoke curling from the chimneys. Could it get chilly up here I wondered? Nah, must just be those weak-kneed Victorians warming up the house to make their weak-kneed beer taste better. Talking beer, we finally pulled into the top pub at Omeo and proceeded to mount a few hundred cartons on the only available space left by strapping them to Otis's minuscule trayback.

As the sun sank, it quickly got colder than a politician's smile and this Queenslander was swapping sandals for socks and shoes and shorts for jeans. Then, as the first cold blasts of air started to work their way through my buttonholes, Lowmount pointed out a garage where they were selling off old pairs of ski pants. These things are great and proved well worth it in the days ahead, especially in an unheated 45 full of leaks. Wattsy tells me 'ski pants' were originally designed to stop yuppies from spilling yoghurt on their shirts, and it sure is great the way the beer rolls straight off them, too. But I didn't find that out until we'd found our camp for the night. This was in the Ormeo campground located just outside of town on the river. Apparently Ant chose this spot because it's the only place a bloke can light a fire in the open around there, and within minutes of the sun going down behind those mountains, we were all glad he had! It was bloody freezing!

In Ormeo, Pat hooked up with an old mate, Noel Cutler, the dual Australian whip-cracking champion who made sure Pat fronted his own wedding some years back. That night as Ant stirred the pots, Noel put on an incredible display of this old Australian art, whirling and cracking his whips like the devil driving the dead from the ground. It was awesome, and when the crackle had died down, we took it in turns to have a go ourselves. See? I've still got the scar behind my ear from my go... Full, happy, warm and only slightly pissed, I climbed on Milo's roof and unrolled the swag. Then I climbed down again and threw it into the little barbecue shelter next to our camp.

Why? It had started to drizzle. Not much at first but the clouds rolling over and the rising water in the creek promised more to come. Sure enough it was one hell of a wet night. No worries I thought, she'll be sunny for the rest of the trip... But this was Victoria wasn't it? Next day dawned sunny enough but quickly turned to soup. Not that it worried us because we'd booked into the Dargo Hotel for the night. Ant led the convoy down the Birregun Road south-west of Omeo and Milo looked like getting her hubs locked for the first time so far. The track was wet, winding and slippery, and although the STTs were holding well, I couldn't resist breaking out the Stauns and dropping the tyre pressures to 16psi all around. There's nothing like the security of bagged-out rubber on a soft track, especially when the tyres have got as much side tread as these new Coopers. But nobody had hit a locker button yet, and when the big-hearted Ant paused at the Dog's Grave, took off his hat and readied for a moment's silence, I heard a deep grumble from the open-top Suzuki. "Oi, Antman, where's the bloody hard stuff, ya mug?"

With a knowing smile on his face, Ant hopped back in the GU and we motored on. The track turned to road, we passed through Dargo and took the Crooked River Road to the north-west. The drizzle was steady when Ant stopped for a GPS reading and then swung the GU to the left down a broken track into a little clearing. Through that, over a pile of logs and we were on Billy Goat Bluff Track. Awesome! The track, like so many of those carved through the Great Dividing Range, followed the crest of the mountains for the most part and it was a mad scrabble in parts to make traction. With 20-year-old brakes and a box that jumps out of first on the overrun, I found myself all alone coming back down. Strange that - it was only a few thousand feet straight down either side...

About now I had Milo's Air Lockers in for the first time all trip, but it wasn't for climbing - the Coopers at 16psi were handling that well - it was for steering stability as we slipped down those steep tracks. It's something I've often done but rarely read about, so pardon me if you know this trick while I tell those who don't. With the rear diff locked - not the front, yet - and the gearstick held in low-range first, a diesel like Milo will skid dead straight down hill with a minimum of fuss on engine braking alone. Meanwhile, Editor Pat was bouncing his buggy around having a ball. A few times he dropped back as Milo slowly ground up another climb, waited until I was almost on his tail and then blasted the V6. The 35s, bagged out now too, would grab and he'd rocket off, leaving Milo to grind away.

"This is better, Ant," I heard him say during one of our many photographic stops, "great views and all but still a bit on the easy side. Look, the Prado and GU are eating this stuff too, we need something that'll stop 'em mate." Take into account that the Prado had a rear Air Locker, the GU had 'em both ends, both had their STTs bagged out and both were driven by very experienced off-road drivers. It wasn't that easy, okay? Fun, yes, great views for sure, even dangerous in places - but nothing a well-equipped fourby and a driver with some commonsense couldn't handle. Which is when Ant peeled off the main track and took us down towards the East Pinnacle. After bumping down a narrow, rutted path, we were finally stopped - by a boghole that looked a tad bigger than all our cars together. "Who's in to check the depth?" said a voice, probably Damo who was hiding behind the Prado. It was cold, the drizzle hadn't stopped, the mud looked thicker than an old meat pie and nobody wanted to walk that puddle.

Ant ventured an opinion that it'd been over the bonnet of Al Johnson's 75 on their last trip through here and they'd all had to winch it, but then noted the creek looked to be flowing harder this time too. That's all Pat needed to hear. He climbed into Otis, gunned the V6 and blasted into that bog like a man possessed - a man possessed of Air Lockers both ends, 35in rubber, 4ft of clearance and a freshly Lanoteced ignition that is. The little Big Foot Suzuki clawed its way through with a bow wave of mud I could have surfed home to Queensland on. With a huge grin, Pat switched off, hopped out and yelled "Righto, you chooks, who's next?" The glove was thrown down. Actually, in retrospect, it was about now that the gloves, the winch cable, snatch straps and shackles all should have been thrown down, nice and close, ready to use. But after a long day's driving and having watched Pat bounce through that puddle, I figured Milo would eat it too. So I put her in second low, chocked the throttle about halfway, hit both Air Locker buttons and plunged on in.

The old girl pushed up a wave of sticky mud that flowed over the bonnet and ploughed straight through until she got hung up on the 45° climb out. Bummer. With liquid mud pouring in through the holes in the floor and around the tailgate it was only seconds before half the stuff in the rear was soaked in crud. I went diving for a snatch strap and chucked it to Pat, who was first to realise there'd be no other way. As he gunned Otis around for the hook-up, Milo began to slip backwards into the hole, weighed down as the mud filled her up. For some strange reason, Ant and Lowmount decided against making that crossing in the new vehicles. It was too late in the day anyway, so I followed Pat back through the puddle and up the track that, thanks to the rain and being chewed up by our tyres, now needed a front locker in places to get through. Up top we stopped and waited for the lads to catch up. And we waited, and waited and then decided to walk down figuring something had gone wrong. We got there just in time to see Lowmount winding back the Prado's winch.

On one very steep, wet, black soil and leaf-mulched section he'd gone as far as the Prado could go before it'd lifted a front tyre and lost all traction. In one long winch pull, about 25m of the 9500lb high-speed Warn cable, Mark was off and ready to roll again. Ant, seeing the trouble Lowmount had, chose a wider line, punched in both the GU's lockers and clawed his way up. If nothing else, this section showed the difference in capabilities between a truck with one Air Locker and one with lockers both ends. Apparently ARB has a Prado front locker under development, but until it's thoroughly tested it won't be available. I bet old Lowmount's whipping that one through right now...

Phew, it was smiles all around as we met Ant's mates at the Dargo Hotel and discovered they had Bundy rum on tap! Scott and Jodie Hamill are great people and run a fantastic pub, too. We'd booked some cabin space for the night and so with a warm bed and a hot shower to look forward to, we took off for a quick trip around the Dargo pioneer museum before dinner. Oh the sheer hardship of those early pioneering lives. I tell you what, I certainly felt like we were in for a harder trip than I'd figured after the day's adventures began to settle in my mind. Yes siree, this High Country stuff was looking good! Back at the pub - have I mentioned it was still raining? - and time for some more Bundies and dinner. I rang the Handbrake and told her the bad bits. It's a man's right after all. "Knee deep in bloody freezing mud all day, the old truck's wetter than one of Long Bruce's crab pots, the tool kit floated out the back door and now Ant's got us stuck in some shed out in the sticks for the night.

I tell you what, this is a hell of a way to make a living." I ran out of coins somewhere between her telling me that Brisbane was in the middle of a heatwave, the lawn had grown another foot and number three had the runs again. "Right, duty done, I'll have another Bundy please Scott. And yes, I think well done and mushroom sauce for the rump please Gangles and perhaps a round of deep-fried camembert for entree, too?" Gangles jangled his pans and we ate like kings that night in the Dargo Hotel. Boy, life doesn't get much better than this I can tell you. Just don't tell the missus, okay? Little did I know that the rest of the trip wouldn't be so easy. But you'll have to wait until next month for that.

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