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With the snow melting, the final leg of the trip's water crossings grew more challenging with every hour - so no need to hurr. Here's the completion of our High Country Adventure.

Words by Jonh Rooth
Photography by Robb Cox

Last installment saw Pat and I playing in the Wonnangatta backcrossing not far from our camp at Talbotville. We spent a couple of nights there in a well set up rain camp - you know, plenty of tarps and booze - and the plan had been to use the day to catch up on filming and do some greasing on Milo and Otis. Yes, well the best laid plans of off-roaders and mice, eh? After a morning of doing what we should, the sun came out, and Pat and I decided on that afternoon drive. With country like this crowding in all around the valley, there's no way a bloke can sit for too long without wanting to head out for a bit of a look, and feel in our case. That's why we'd spent the afternoon crabbing across that backcrossing, close enough to losing the trucks as the water swept through at chest height. There were grins all around that night as the drizzle kicked off again at Talbotville. But with a big pile of logs for the fire and a full esky to sit on, a bloke needed some adventures to brag about! There's no point building up tough trucks if you're not prepared to use them, even if it is just to keep the camera guys happy.

Although, how happy my mate Wattsy must have felt sitting up on top of Milo's rack, bravely hanging on with one hand while pointing his camera with the other, I have no idea. With the waters swirling away just a few feet beneath him and the old girl rocking from side to side like Fat Kevvy rolling home after darts, Pete might have felt more comfortable filming a rodeo from the rider's point of view. That's the thing you don't often see on our DVD adventures - the things that happen behind the scenes to bring you all that action. It's one thing to steer a truck up a steep slippery incline; it's another to hang off the side of the slope in knee-deep snow waiting for those few moments when the button gets a work-out. And with Pete stealing the best locations, photographer Robb Cox had to work even harder. I swear I saw his old sneakers shooting up a tree or two to get a better vantage point more than once. Yep, whether they're chest deep in a freezing creek in their underpants, scrabbling over rocky ledges or hanging off the side of trucks copping a caning from the undergrowth, our camera guys deserve medals for the effort they put in. Deep down, they're there for the same reason the rest of us are, because they love banging around the bush. It's a tough job though, and only the tough survive - we've had cameramen chuck mentals and go to work for Modern Embroidery and Patchwork rather than stick it out with the men.

So I 'dips me lid' to our crew, mostly because it's cheaper than shouting them more drinks, and I've got a feeling those bottles of Charred Knee plonk that Wattsy drinks probably cost a tad more than a couple of bucks a hit. But we were a long way from any fancy restaurants, even though Ant's cooking was doing the job. What job? Oh, did I mention the pit toilet at the other end of the Talbotville camp? Yes, well if the park's poo contractor is reading this, you can come and empty it now. After another night under the stars - they were there, you just couldn't see them for the rain clouds and mist - we broke camp early and drove north-west up the Wombat Range Track. With the sun breaking through, it wasn't long before the track dried and the views became magnificent as we worked our way up the Wombat Spur. On the map, it's not much of a stretch from Talbotville to Wonnangatta Station, though there are plenty of curly lines to indicate it ain't exactly flat and a few strokes of blue to indicate the rivers.

Apart from the early stages leaving the valley, most of our day was spent clinging off the sides of near-vertical mountains on tracks made for horses and plunging through creeks. Oh, and not listening to Ant's warnings that "perhaps the water might be up along here and we mightn't make it through". Sure enough, just after lunch and close to the base of Hearnes Spur with a camp at Wonnangatta not far away, we struck the first of several water crossings that really tested us out. As usual, Pat was quick to take the plunge. After a bit of chin scratching and watching the way the current flowed, he poked Otis through at a fairly rapid pace. With water streaming across the bonnet in places and the locked 35s scrabbling for traction, the Suzi-bodied buggy crabbed its way across the Humffray River in fine style. Three-quarters of the way anyway. A slightly deeper channel was flowing strong close to the other bank, and the Suzi slipped sideways as fast as it went forwards. Pat nailed the throttle, and with the big tyres working like paddlewheels, he bumped and floated through that final trough.

Almost sideways in the flow, the little truck finally caught some ground, shot forwards and launched him up the bank. Dripping wet with a grin bigger than his steaming V6, Pat opened the door and let the river out. "Yeah, but we've got to cross this bugger three or four more times, and there's nothing to say those crossings won't be worse than this," said Ant, with a bit of 'please don't let me lose ARB's Nissan' definitely present in his voice. Without a snorkel, Ant had good reason to be worried, but Lowmount Mark was looking pensive too. "No way," he said, pointing a thumb at the Prado. "Too light, she'll just float away if I put her through that." "Mate," said Damo in his thickest put-on Lebanese Australian voice, "you gonna drench your subwoofers there, my friend. You gonna be the kebab that floated away like a big white turd for sure."

Phew, coming from blokes like Lowmount and Damo, who've got plenty of experience and aren't frightened of much on a bad day, this wasn't good. But they had a fair-dinkum point - I was 50/50 about swimming Milo through as it was. It wasn't the depth so much, we've plunged through worse, but that rip on the other side that saw Otis swim was moving quicker than a politician on his way to a free feed. Sensing we weren't in a hurry to follow, Pat drove back, a tad easier because the fast bit was at the start of his run but still pretty hairy none the less. After a bit of confabbing, we decided to send Otis over again. Then we'd lay some snatch straps across and use her to pull the other trucks across one by one. A great plan, only slightly marred by the fact that we were almost washed away trying to get those straps across the river!

For those who haven't experienced how hard a snatch strap can pull once it's caught in a fast-moving current, trust me, it's enough to dump a bloke and drag him downstream. But we persevered and finally got a couple of straps across. Milo went first, and even as Pat gunned the Suzi up the track, I felt the old girl slip sideways as the she hit the flow. The straps went back and we repeated the exercise with the Prado and the Patrol. For the Nissan, without a snorkel, the speed of crossing was absolutely essential to keep the water flowing over the bra instead of up through the engine bay. But hey, when it comes to right foot, nobody stomps as hard as Pat! Beauty, we were across, although the fact we might be trapped between rising rivers added a bit of pensiveness to the celebration. The sun was shining strong now, and while it was lovely to see, it was melting the snow that'd fallen a few days before.

But as tough as the other crossings turned out to be, they didn't have that final, nasty rip of our first, and possibly more practiced at them by now, we got through quicker than we thought. These conditions, as much as some of the wet and slippery muck we'd driven through during the early days of our trip, really tested out the new Cooper STTs. By now, I was running them at 16psi all the time because they handled it no problem at all, made for incredible traction and gave Milo a slightly easier ride over the rocks as well. In this sort of country, it's all about steering and braking security - that or learn to fly - and although the low pressures allowed for a bit of squirm, I was thoroughly impressed by these tyres. I'd liked them on the highway trip down, but each day of predictable slip in that wet High Country was making me appreciate them more. Naturally, I didn't tell Cooper rep Damo that. Like boys in the bush always will, we were now wisecracking and poking fun at every chance. Thanks to Damo and Coxy, we'd gone thoroughly Lebanese now, noting the best hills were 'fully sick' and that Ant's spag bowl was pure halal all the way.

Not only that, but Lowmount's Toyota was wearing a 'Prado Princess' numberplate, and while Otis might be the goods, without some fat subwoofers, Editor Pat'd never stand a chance with the Fatimas in Lakemba. Seasoned travellers will recognise the symptoms: a heavy overlay of humour to hide the hard work and ever-present dangers of our trip. This wasn't the worst section we'd driven by any means, but it had more hairy sections than Fatima, and after all the rain, I wasn't that surprised we didn't see any other vehicles all day. Not even a fresh track. However, we did see a couple of trucks camped near the old homestead at Wonnangatta Valley. After stopping for a yarn, we found they'd driven in from Myrtleford from the north. This is the most popular route into Wonnangatta when conditions are a bit dicey, and being experienced High Country travellers, they'd decided to play it safe. Even so, the big spring thaws and the recent snow had made some of their river crossings a bit on the hectic side, and things went very quiet as we mentioned the route we'd just traversed. Glances were exchanged of the 'these guys are loonies' type. Rapid change is where any adventure in the High Country starts. The route we took isn't that tough. In fact, it's just a lot of slow and twisted fun - unless it's been raining and the creeks are up.

And there's a reason there are so many huts still maintained through here. When the weather changes, it can go from blue sky to blizzard faster than you can strap on the chains. For that reason, summer and autumn (November to May) is the time to visit Wonnangatta, and indeed, it's often the only time you can get through thanks to the seasonal road closures. But the thoughts of what might be ahead faded away as we broke through for our first full look at the magnificent Wonnangatta Valley. It was a first for me, and the sight of those rolling grass plains nestled in a valley in the middle of so much virtually inaccessible country was as magnificent as it comes. As if to welcome us, the sun came out and suddenly our trucks seemed to shrink as the horizon expanded. What a place to live! As the crow flies, this isn't the most remote place in our huge country, but it might as well be. Surrounded by massive hills and valleys, accessed only by tracks that were cut during winter or any time it rained, those early settlers must have felt like they were in a world of their own. The plaque at the old homestead site tells some of the story; your imagination tells the rest.

As magnificent as this country is on a summer's day, it must have seemed cold, bleak and incredibly lonely when winter set in. Yet this is where William and Annie Bryce brought up their seven children, with only the Smiths up the track for company. The little graveyard tells some of the story of Wonnangatta. The valley's long been heralded as a sort of mecca for four-wheel drivers though, and it's damned easy to see why. The tracks in and out are all magnificent, but even the easiest earns the difficult badge thanks to constant river crossings and incredibly steep slopes. All this and you're surrounded by some of the most picturesque scenery anywhere in our wonderful country. It was worth all that swimming to get there, I can tell you! Pat eyeballed the so-called 'Widow-maker', the steep slope behind the homestead that wears a few tracks up its guts. But Ant knew of that hill's history and the lives it had already claimed so, possibly for the first time in living memory, Pat decided to err on the side of caution. See, we might cross rivers that shouldn't be tackled, but we're not totally irresponsible! Most of the time.

From Wonnangatta Valley, we drove west up the Zeka Track and back into the curly tracks and steep gradients that are the High Country's typical fare. Sometimes the water coming up from underground seemed to soak to the surface with every fresh tyre track, and the clay-based track got mighty slippery in places. But by now the STTs had earned my trust, and I figured the drive out was going to be a bludge all the way. The plan was to camp the night at Craig's Hut, which was built for the movie The Man From Snowy River, and from there it was a stone's throw back to sealed roads and civilisation. Seeing Minogue's Lookout on the map, I was just settling into a nice little fantasy - Kylie stressing her bikini to the max as she bent over to drag the esky full of chilled beers my way - when the smell of burning grease shattered my dreams faster than the Handbrake swinging a fish. Halfway down the narrow and twisting 16 Mile Road, with nothing but cliff face on one side and a massive drop on the other, Milo had cooked a front wheel bearing. Bugger. I touched the smoking freewheeling hub and promptly burnt my finger.

It was as close to a disaster of the not-getting-home type as it comes. The constant water and mud immersion had been too much for the hub seal. The hub filled with water, the grease turned to sludge and the smaller outer bearing collapsed. Bits of metal had circulated and soon chewed out the freewheeling assembly. With all of this going on, the tabs on the locknut sheared off and the nuts holding the hub on unwound. Yep, the only thing holding the wheel on was the disc-brake rotor trapped by the caliper. Another few minutes or a decent bumpy turn and Milo would have dropped to her knees. As it was, the threads were chewed off the stub axle, the disc rotor was badly gouged and the nuts were totalled. I had some old bearings but no spare nuts - the story of my life. Bugger. An hour away from the hut, end-of-the-day beers and a long overdue feed and things looked pretty desperate. To make matters worse, the sun was fading fast and it'd started to drizzle.

Fortunately, Lowmount was carrying a thread file - something I'll be packing from now on! - and while he worked over the axle, I pulled the other side apart and stole the locking nut. Using Loctite on the threads and coating both assemblies in silicone for luck, I put the old girl back together minus the chewed-out freewheeling hub mechanism.

It was dark before the job was through, and with only two-wheel drive and the rear Air Locker to count on, I followed the others at a fairly slow pace as we worked our way out, stopping to check the temperature on both hubs every few miles. Milo's lights began to dim and I realised she wasn't charging anymore either. The water had ruined the alternator, and it looked like the fan clutch was stuffed too. It was nearly midnight when we got to Craig's Hut, and it was pissing down rain and blowing a gale to boot. Nothing a few hundred beers and a big steak cooked on the fire couldn't fix, though! The next day we drove through to Mansfield, and while Lowmount and I rebuilt Milo's hubs at Martin's Garage - thanks guys - the others set off for Albury and home. Our High Country adventure was over, but despite all the trials and tribulations, despite all the wet, cold nights and days filled with tortuous driving up and down twisted tracks, I reckon every one of us would have headed back for another go right there and then. As far as adventures go, the High Country has some of the best off-road driving in the world and views to die for. Yep, I had plenty of time to think about our High Country drives on that two-day haul back up the Newell, and I know I'll be back.

In fact, a bloke could probably drive around the Alpine Park for a lifetime and still be finding something new. Hand me another beer, Kylie, I've got some planning to do!

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