The Victorian Alps Info

The Victorian Alps

I pressed hard on the frog's back and it flipped a few inches towards the front of the bus. A murmur swelled from the audience and I sat back, grinning smugly at Gwen. 'Beat that one if you think you're hard enough.'
She rubbed her hands together and blew on them warmly for luck, then placed her own frog on the starting line and pushed down hard. It gave a feeble twitch and ended up on its side less than an inch from where it had started. I basked in the roar of victory from the spectators and raised my frog in triumph. 'No other frog can ever beat Dennis!'
Gwen eyed me curiously: 'Dennis?'
'Yes, that's what the frog's called.'
'…and why is it called Dennis?'
I'd been waiting for someone to ask me that: 'It's named after a famous movie star.'
'Who?'
'Dennis Hopper.'
She shook her head sadly and sighed hard. 'You don't deserve to win after a joke like that.' 'You're just jealous you can't think of them.'
'Believe me, I'm not.'
The journey so far that morning had not been the most exciting. Since leaving Phillip Island just after eight o'clock we'd driven pretty much non-stop to get into the Victorian Alps, on our way to Gelantipy where we'd been spending the night before heading on to Canberra in the morning. Our only diversion from the constant travelling had been a short pit stop in a small mountain village for a tour of their small local brewery. The promise had fallen immediately on its face when we got there and realised that no one had actually told the brewery we were coming -- consequently they weren't making any beer that day. The driver had done her best to salvage the situation by rallying us with the news that we were also due to stop at a winery in the next village along. When we got there, dark looks were shot in her direction on the discovery that no one had told them we were coming either; we all ended up getting miserably back onboard the bus without the sound of even one cork being popped.
With the sun hot and the bus lacking in air conditioning, people began to dose off. An attempt was made to liven things up a bit with a game of Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon, but it only worked for a little while as the people at the back weren't able to hear properly over the noise of the engine. I had never played the game before and found it difficult to follow, not least of all because I only knew about three Kevin Bacon movies. Gwen and I began chatting and played 'bus tennis' with a piece of rolled up paper, after which her skills as a doctor really came into their own. Unbeknown to me, medical training in the UK must now include origami lessons -- when we tired of the game of tennis, she took the piece of paper we'd been using as a ball, smoothed it out and began to fold, tuck and bend it expertly. In only a few seconds she handed me a crisp, sharp edged, green paper frog. 'If you push down on its back it'll hop.'
I turned it over in my hands, inspecting it in awe. 'No way.'
'It will.'
She took it from me, placed it on the ground and pressed hard on its back. The frog reared up and bounced a few centimetres up the bus. I grinned from ear to ear. 'Ex-cellent! Let me have a go!'
I brought the frog back to where I sat and repeated the trick; again it hopped a few centimetres up the bus. I cracked my fingers and laughed. To hell with Kevin Bacon, I'd found the way I'd be passing the time. As I sat bouncing the frog, people began to take an interest -- at first out of curiosity, then in amusement at its antics. Gwen made another one for herself and soon we were having races and hopping competitions, cheered along by the rest of the bus who had formed alliances of support and were cajoling and making bets on the success of their chosen frog. Mine was clearly the better athlete, and wiped the floor with Gwen's each and every time. She played with sportsmanship though, and took her failures well.
'Well if you're going to call your frog Dennis Hopper then I'm going to have to christen mine. I'm going to call mine. . . to call mine. . . Jack Flash. You know -- Jumping Jack Flash.' I nodded. 'That well known amphibian rock star.'
'Exactly.'
'Well, whatever he's called he's no match for Dennis.'
As I put the two frogs back on the starting line, bets were placed and odds shouted:
'Fifteen to one on The Flash.'
'I'm giving six to two on Dennis.'
'I'll have some of that.'
When the betting finished, all eyes gripped the floor.
Jack Flash never stood a chance.

*
Gelantipy Cattle Station is high in the Victorian Alps and the place was freezing. Long before we'd arrived, our bags were scavenged for additional layers of clothing to ward off the icy fingers of frost creeping into the bus through the cracks in the windows and gaps in the doors. Foolishly I'd left my coat back in Melbourne, thinking that since I was going to be spending most of my time in Queensland it would end up as unnecessary baggage. Shivering in a thin shirt and threadbare jumper I was almost intent on hitching back to Melbourne to pick it up before going any further.
My luck didn't appear to be changing any for the better either when I got to my room at the station and, in my haste to get to the large roaring fire I'd spied on my way in, I threw my bags in the vague direction of the bed. I heard the loud, distinctive crack of a bottle smashing, followed by an overwhelming odour that suggested I was in for a brief spell without aftershave. I groaned in misery -- this was going to mean a long night spent picking shards of glass out of my underwear. On the plus side though, I'd have the most aromatic smelling backpack this side if Sydney's gay district. I decided that the clean up could wait and headed down to claim my position beside the fire.
I was quite impressed with Gelantipy Cattle Station. Its main source of business is through its fully operating farm, but it supplements this by encouraging travellers to take a few days out of their schedules and to get away from it all by spending some time in the natural beauty of the mountains. And it was a beautiful place to spend some time for those who wanted to appreciate it. If money was an issue this could quickly be resolved by having a word with the farm manager - he was more than happy for people to earn their keep through a few hours work each day. And for the rest of the time there were excursions, horse rides, hikes, a mountain lake to swim in and all sorts of other activities to pass the time - there was even an indoor climbing wall. Some of the others were falling off it now as I sat laughing at them from the warmth of the fire.
Dinner was called and we took our places for an amazing three-course meal of soup, meat and vegetables, and desert. Like all farms around the world they seemed to balance the hard labour of the day with hefty meals in the evening. One of the girls at my table was a vegetarian and I was amused at the exchange that took place when her meal was brought: 'Excuse me, this is chicken soup.'
'. . .yes.'
'But I phoned ahead and told you I was a vegetarian.'
'Yes I know - this is the vegetarian meal.'
'Chicken soup? How can chicken soup be the vegetarian option?'
'But. . . there are vegetables in the chicken soup.'
She scowled at the worker as he walked, confused, back to the kitchen -- undoubtedly to tell his friends all about the mad woman out front who didn't know that chicken was a vegetable.

There was a nocturnal animal tour that evening. We were to be taken on a drive around the farm's extensive grounds in the hope of catching sight of some of Australia's rarer animals such as wombats and echidnas. I was quite looking forward to the tour. Otte and I had been sitting by the fire when we got the call that the tour was about to start. It was a sharp dip back into the fridge of reality for us when we left the comfort and warmth of our armchairs and were bundled into the back of a roofless truck. The night had gotten even colder since we arrived and we sat shivering, eyes wide searching for life in the darkness, bumping across fields, rocking over ditches, looking for anything moving in the night. Once or twice someone yelled and the truck would jar to a halt, sending us all sliding painfully into the back of the cabin. We would nurse our bruised bodies as we searched the gloom, but not once did the alleged animal reappear. For a while it looked like the only animals we were going to see that night were the cows. Typical, I thought - after what had happened earlier at the brewery and the winery, the lack of promised animal sightings now just seemed to be following a trend. Maybe no one had told the animals we were coming that night either. Then it was all forgotten. A shout went up and the truck slammed on the breaks. Everyone slid to another painful, crashing halt against the cabin, rubbed their appendages achingly, then eyed the darkness for life. A wallaby bounced out from behind a tree; everyone held their breath least they would scare it away. Oblivious to our proximity, it hopped over the grass sniffing at the ground in search of food. Pausing to rub its paws across its face, it seemed to notice us. For a moment we were sure it would flee, but it appeared to give us no more than a passing glance before hopping further, eventually disappearing back into the scrub. All the girls cooed at its cuteness and we drove on. Not far from the wallaby sighting we came across a wombat lumbering laboriously across a clearing. It was a lot bigger than I'd imagined and a lot heavier. Far from the scurrying rat-like creature I'd expected it to be it waddled slow and blindly, never once either seeing us or paying us any heed. It was fascinating to watch for a short while, but before too long it began to bore us and we petitioned the driver to continue. We saw no more animals that night except for a few more cows, but as we sat in the back of the truck, rumbling our way back, we were offered an unparalleled view of the night sky. Lying back watching shooting stars and satellites streak by overhead, I didn't even notice the cold. I was quite upset when we returned to the homestead and the driver insisted I get back inside.

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