-
UP THE BLUFF - Hi Country Bois
If the stakes were higher than normal that weekend, the scene in a regional hotel bedroom with six partly drunk men wasn't any indication. Listen closely and you'd have heard the nervous crackle of nuts as we relived Jurassic Park.
We'd committed via packed Instagram thread to another Winter Solstice ride, with the ante well and truly upped. Eight raised a digital hand, and the number surprisingly only dwindled to six at shit-hitting-the-fan time, in spite of snow forecast at 800m. Time to trawl the drawers for those special pieces of clothing designed to keep toes attached, and fingers from emulating smashed frozen sausages.
The goal would be Bluff Hut - a rescue shack nestled high (1500m or thereabouts) in the Victorian Alps with, with what promised to be a beautiful punch in the cock climb to reach it. We were working on the basis that four wheel drive access would be suspended for the winter, meaning the only other potential shackmates would be hikers or cross-country skiers. The latter seemed most unlikely despite the promise of 'snow'. I say snow with intended sarcasm because I tend to view Australia's version as underwhelming after years of French Alps snowboarding trips. In any case, both days would be just 45 kilometres, albeit with a fair bit of ascent. Piece of piss . We'll be kicking back at the shed by 3PM sipping cocktails and lounging in silken robes.
The original plan was to camp Friday night at Running Creek by the entrance to the single track we'd meander up through the valley, but mother nature planned a giant piss according to various satellite apps, and we weren't here to doubt science. Instead we stopped short at the Delatite Hotel in Mansfield, sinking frothies to the soothing tones of Richard Attenborough (God Rest His Soul), rain lashing sideways at the window and validating our decision not to sleep in tents.
"No wonder you're extinct. I'm gonna run you over when I come back down."
Traditional swine sandwiches for breakfast followed by knee-jerk purchases of chunky 80's ski gloves for some, while a good luck Magpie had a go on Todd's bike.
A short thirty minute drive through the morning fog before the turn off onto a windy pothole of a road we were glad not to be driving in the dark. No time was wasted readying the horses, and my beloved dried figs and backup noodles fell casualty to the briskness. Fear not, I thought, for I had remembered to bring my homemade energy bollocks (date, oat, dark chocolate and peanut butter). I distributed one to each member of the group, mostly because I'm very generous, but partly to curry favour with them should I need dragging naked out of a snow-drift by the ankles. Even the slightest altitude sickness can send one insane.
We peeled out of the car park and straight up an off camber scramble to the start of the onetrack, peeks of the raging Howqua river below to our left.
Precisely 1.3km into the ride Todd monstertrucked a fallen log, sending a limb to punch his derailleur inward and nearly snapped the thing clean off.
Bush tugging (oo er) soon got the thing bent back and we were on our merry fucking way to sample the delights of the trail's other downed trees, vicious muddy pinches and grin-ducing flow.
I crested a slick push-your-bike climb and was met with a pair of deer hunter in a mix of camouflage and hi-vis. Each brandished a large scoped rifle, walky-talkies and an air of dubious legality given that we were on a shared walking track.
"Where you boys off to?" one asked.
"Bluff Hut" I responded, immediately regretting my honesty.
"Who are you talking to?" Said one of our group, referring to the camouflaged men. I'm the one who does the jokes around here though, so they won't be named.
"Aw ye, well there's about six more fellas back there" he said as we pressed on.
Always good to ride your bike knowing that your eyeball might be ejected through the back of your cranium at any moment. I realised too late that riding in front drastically increased the chances of such a scenario, but toughed it out no biggywiggy. The gunmen emerged from the bush at random for several more kilometres as the trail dipped and wove through the valley, often overgrown and washed out. The final pair were walking up a fire track as we converged on it, one carrying a decapitated deer over his shoulder. A cheery wave and a hello was all we fancied to offer, and we resumed pedalling to escape any potential head explosions. We're in the country now boys!
After 11km's we popped out at a fire road better identified as a climbing wall, but the route mercifully pointed us downhill. At the lowest point a giant puddle taunted the group, and not all of us were prepared to let the watery reflective bastard get away with it.
That tough guy feeling didn't last long as we rounded the next corner to it's pissed off mate, a rowdy river sans bridge. As five stood and speculated, born tough cunt Big Al Cowan wound up the legges and catapulted into the torrent. 75% completion or thereabouts, and a leg down on the riverbed got him across. The rest of us had hoped to keep feeling in our feet for just a little while longer though, and de-socked to throw shoes over troubled water.
Tom's first reached the far bank with aplomb, but a monumental brain fart saw his second launch straight up into the air and plop into the drink with no-plomb. He stood motionless as everyone howled "FUUUCK, GEDDIT!". Keen for another splash, Al came to the rescue, tracking the wayward shoe down as it made a bid for the main Howqua River and holding it aloft like a sweaty trophy. The rest of the crossing happened without fanfare or excitement, and we re-socked for the next assault.
Next up, a short climb up what I assume was the recent course for the 2018 Tanks Skidding Down A Steep Fucking Hill Championships. A ramping, water bar savage with dead trees strewn across chunky peanut butter.
The pistons had finally warmed up as we caught stinging breaths at the top, only to be quickly re-chilled for on the following shonk downhill to Sheepyard Flat. An early warning that the day's riding wouldn't be all up.
Two of our number briefly detoured to scope a potential backup shack as the rest stood snacking at an intersection. They returned with few good words to say about Fry's Hut. Boarded over fireplace, a bit damp, all that stuff. Fry sure sounded like a dick.
We trundled on for Sheepyard flat, the first of the large riverside campgrounds littering the valley before the converging mountains put an end to all that flat ground bullshit. A quick stop for some lunch reminded me that I hadn't actually brought lunch. After all, we'd be at the hut by 3PM roasting chestnuts and writing poems.
Nary a minute after resuming the pissing rain began, and it didn't let up till it had completely changed its composition to something even more sinister. We slid into rain coats and tracked the wide road as it chicaned up the mountain side, and split to find our individual paces for a while - each wetter than an otter's pocket.
The climb proper began around six kilometres along, where the road stopped all the fannying around in favour of switchbacks up through native fern strewn gullies for ten or so clicks. My legs warmed to the effort as we made our way up, but a quick stop to photograph some spicy light peeking through storm clouds was a reminder of just how fucking chilly it was getting.
Regrouping at the top, those intrepid forerunners had spied the first piece of snow. A sad, TV dinner for one pile of slush which was exciting nonetheless.
Concerningly it'd be another descent to follow, meaning only more climbing from there on. Happily we'd all remembered wear our big boy britches, and we wailed down Bluff Link Track to stunning views of Big Mr Fucking Bluff off to our right. Albeit high in the clouds, which were now clearly shitting snow everywhere. This side of the mountain was far colder, and only a few minutes into the renewed effort the snow began to gather.
We squealed and honked like morons, happy that it wouldn't have the same grim dampening effect as the day's rain. The giddiness lasted a few more hundred meters, petering out completely when the 10cm of snow had eliminated all traction. We disengaged cycling legs and attached the hiklist one as the light began to noticeably dim.
The aptly named Refrigerator Gap met us atop the push, with a blustery clearing unfettered by trees now pretty deep with the cold white shit. This, if any, would have been the point of no return. On checking the map we pegged Bluff Hut a bout 8kms away. Far closer than that fucking idiot Fry's Hut, but along a road steeped in mystery, and probably knee deep in the fluff. Truth be told I don't think a single one of us would have put our faith in Fry, and we drew on into the fast darkening tree line to prove it.
Happily the road pitched down shortly after, and we swung a leg over to surf down with almost no control of our bikes, taking it in turns to completely lose the front wheel and go flying into the ditches and streams which lined the sides. The group split again as the beauty of a road undulated, pushing out and drawing you back into the frozen gullies. This is Mike's happy face.
Visibility was well and truly fucked by this point, and the crawling pace meant a mere intermittent blink from my Supernova to illuminate the quickly deepening snow. The temperature had taken a swan dive, but the effort maintained plenty of body heat. That and the plastic bags between our double-layer socks.
It was pitch black when Todd, Al and myself arrived at the turn off for the hut, and after a frenzied check of the route to be doubly sure, we set about the final (literal) push up to get the fire going. It's not often you find yourself in such a scene, and safe to say that adrenaline was holding back some full-blown underwear accidents. Al had charged off as we continued the slow push through the trees, up and over rolling water bars now obscured under a foot of powder. Cheery thoughts about dying on the mountain crossed the mind. Fatigue had set in, and skipping lunch started to feel more like a death sentence than mere oversight.
A kilometre or so on the road revealed it's junk-punching intentions with a twisted switchback. I'd begun to feel like there was no gate stopping four wheelers punching up to the hut, but seeing the stout metal form across the road a little way up reinstated faith. The Wolverine's wheels were now completely clogged where the little clearance I'd started with had formed an avalanche. Both were complete, spokeless discs of snow that forced periodical stops to remove whatever jammed the rear. The fuck are we doing?
By now the only light visible was the beacon of Al's head torch far up the mountain side. Some real Lord of the Fucking Rings vibes getting around. The trail was a horrifically steep and narrow double track, with just the outline of a very big drop off to the right to remind you not to go anywhere near it. Ghostly snow gums bore down, and stinging legs marched on. A switchback to repeat what felt like the mirror image of what we'd just done, followed by another glimpse of the faraway light to remind me that we still had plenty of hike left.
It felt like we pushed up that mountain for a million shitty years, edging closer to oblivion than a pot of hot noodles. Strange reprieve came with the small stretches of streams that ran to the side of the trail, into which we'd grunt the bikes for some reduced-friction motion that were all too brief. Where the fuck is this hut? Panic was finding its way through more often, mostly because I knew how fucking stupid I'd look if I was found dead in a blizzard wearing cycling clothes. More grunting, pushing, falling. Mike had caught us with news that the others were a ways back, and the three of us ploughed on. Then, before we could ask any more questions about our life choices, the track levelled, and a clearing appeared. 'X%#FF #$T CAMPG#$@', read a largely white sign. FUCK YES!
We lined the bikes up under the hut's spacious overhang and set about porting food and supplies in. Our trailblazer already had the beginnings of a blaze in the gargantuan fireplace, and had news of a veritable dick load of prime wood stocked outside. Bluff was far larger than Keppel, sporting a huge viking long table in the middle surrounded by bunk seats. It even had a kitchen area by the fire. Soon all six were jostling for position by it, modern dancehall blaring from a speaker Al had thought to drag along.
Our respective poisons of whisky, wine, beer, tequila(!!), and some mixtures of all four were brought out in celebration. Ironically despite a day of pissing rain and snow the group had exactly fuck all drinkable water left, and the rainwater tank outside the hut had frozen solid. By the grace of the Adventure Gods I'd toted a whole cacciatore sausage and a wheel of Camembert to tide me over while pots of snow melted for Laksa noodles. You're never too far away from civilisation to maintain your gout.
The night was spent in a boozy endorphin haze, raging as hard as the eyebrow singeing fire when taking into consideration the day's exhaustion. The hike-a-ride shook out at 50km and several thousand meters of climbing, but the numbers didn't really begin to tell the story. At least 8km was on foot, and if this blizzard bullshit kept up there would be plenty more of that to come.
Wet socks positioned at what may or may not have been a safe distance from the inferno, we took to bed - not one person mentioning the fact we'd be leaving the way we came after a night of heavy forecast snow.
All the really good digital pictures are from Tom (Instagram: @roonsnake which you need to follow right now), and Toddy's film camera (Instagram: @toddcycles)
-
Time to brew a coffee and start reading I guess. :)
Edit:
Thanks for the writeup, looking forward to read more!
If you ever publish a book from these I'll sure as hell will buy it! -
This thread makes me hate my life.
And your threads make me hate my life, can you imagine?!
But yeah, agreed on more cycling.
@sensom: Excuse me if this is played out or if you already do, but have you considered writing in a more 'official' capacity? Like a website or a book or something. Seems like you have a knack for it and an audience who digs it.
-
Awesome write up mate it was an ace fucken weekend!
@sensom @bobble I do indeed have a Fujilfilm XT2. I have a few lenses as well but predominantly use;
XF 56mm f1.2
XF 35mm f1.4
XF 23mm f2
XF 18-55mm f2.8-4Fuji's are great and the XT2's weather sealing has been amazing, its been totally wet for hours at a time and so far so good.
Cant wait for part 2!
-
Thanks! Yeah the 18-55 is a fantastic kit lens as its pretty fast wide open (f2.8) and tack sharp as all fuji lens generally are. If you have cash and like primes the 56mm f1.2 is a very crispy boy and probably my fav lens. pair that with the 23mm and you have a good range IMO.
-
@tijs @PhilDAS Yeah it is tempting, particularly as I actually used to publish books for a living. Problem being it's not very cost effective producing books with pictures in.
Otherwise open to suggestions from anyone who has a good idea which websites may enjoy such content.
@Hulsroy right back at ya, just with sexy bike parts instead of hike-a-bike trips ;)
-
Set up a website maybe and run a few ads and add a donate button? Obviously not for a living, but for some pocket money at the start. :)
-
It's a little strange reading about snow in Australia, when we're experiencing a draught here in Denmark.
Usually it's the other way around.Cracking read as usual.
PhilDAS
rawmeat
bobble
Pawlus
pascalo
MrBaklava
si_mon628
platypus
vpCogworks
birofunk
Hulsroy
Tijs
roon_snake
ak
MisterMikkel-
Post a reply
About
Huge-Action Monsteur - Wolveurine 650B Toureur (Wolverine)
Posted by
@sensom
Ah thanks mate - I appreciate the kind words! Rustling up some blizzard content as we speak :)