Post-shakedown, a canter confirmed Wasabi (the trusty steed)’s fondness for the load. Today was leg day, much like the last three weeks of the group training regime, and sights were set on the pointy end of an iconic range, made famous through film’s take on a legendary poem, The Man from Snowy River.
Rumbling down the highway, the light broke as we met our first challenge, a blown mud terrain on the side of the M7, an abrupt interruption that pulled us out of early-morning optimism and into the reality of travel. Peak hour offered minimal wiggle room, but generously supplied a soundtrack to stimulate the day.
Almost three conversations and a harmonica jam later, embarrassingly, the utility blanket had once again found its way onto the ground for a running repair, this time more of a head-scratcher than we’d hoped for. It was an early reminder that this trip would ask for patience long before it offered reward.
A healthy dose of ratchet straps appeared, followed by some very generous locals, the float was limped to the bench as it quietly called half-time. The descent upon Victoria continued regardless, albeit further back in the convoy, progress slowed but morale intact, buoyed by the kind of shared inconvenience that pulls people together instead of apart.
Night fell as the ensemble rolled into base camp at the foot of the hills, where phone reception receded, and the last traces of the modern world fell away. It was here we learned that three other tyres had also fallen victim to the journey.
Morning came fast. Hands busy, no time wasted tacking up for the climb. Only the essentials were coming along, gear checked, bags balanced, horses eager, and there was comfort in the simplicity of it all. Everything you carry needs to earn its place, especially when effort is guaranteed and tomorrow will ask you and your steed to lift it again.
The sun peeked through as we met the first of many river crossings, each horse taking its turn, sip, step, and carefully pick a line across the stones, setting a rhythm that would carry us through the day.
Elevation came steadily, vegetation shifting just as quickly as the air cooled, gums thinned and twisted as we pushed toward the subalpine. The early hooting and hollering faded into a gentle, swaying chorus of creaking saddles, and time began to stretch in that familiar way it does when movement becomes repetitive and purposeful.
Fatigue crept in quietly. Steps grew less calculated, spatial awareness dulled, and saddle bags brushed past trees, rocks and shrubs, testing equipment at every opportunity. This country has a way of exposing weaknesses, gear, horses, people alike, and the things that worked without asking for attention quickly became the things you trusted most.
We ducked into multiple huts along the way, each heavy with nostalgia. Standing beneath timber beams shaped by hardened folk who once worked these hills, it was impossible not to admire their stoicism and dedication to a raw, rugged life. Our hardship was temporary by comparison, and we knew it. We lingered longer than planned, consumed the surroundings along with a fair share of cured meats, and carried that contrast quietly back into the saddle.
Each day another ridge was tiptoed across, where steep cliffs softened into open plateaus that felt like a cowgirl’s version of The Sound of Music. Water became currency. Bluebird conditions made short work of our stores. Once depleted, the foraging pouch served to house the blackberries scooped from trail-sides, and even ensuring the camera was holstered within reach.
By the third day, the largest of the trip arrived. The crux passage passed Hell’s Window loomed ahead, a steep, exposed climb that looked better suited to mountain goats than horses. We approached the rocky spur toward Mount Howitt relying on the trust and partnership we had forged in the lead up.
Horses were led one by one.
The line was narrow.
Every hoof mattered.
Two hours passed ensuring each step landed exactly where it was intended, tension rising and falling with every careful placement. When the top finally arrived, it carried relief more than celebration, a deep breath, a laugh, a neck rub, a rolled cigarette, and a cautious check of the maps to confirm we wouldn’t be going back the same way.
From there, routine took over. Find water. Unsaddle. Wash down the horses. Set a yard. Roll out the swag. Flick on the bush tele. The work never really stopped, but neither did the satisfaction that came with it. Evenings ended slumped around the fire, sharing tales, laughs, dinner, and half-remembered lyrics, until the stars dwarfed everything and silence settled in comfortably, broken only by the occasional, “Did you see that one?”
Cold river plunges shocked bodies awake each morning, resetting sore muscles and sleepy minds alike.
On the final day, our secluded camp revealed itself to be less reachable than expected, sitting dormant midway along the route of an ultramarathon trail. Competitors stumbled upon our setup, surprised to find folk living a way of life majorly forgotten. Encouragement flowed easily. After all, we were all running our own marathon in nature, just at very different paces.
By the end, it wasn’t the peaks or the distances that lingered most. It was the rhythm of hard days, shared challenge, and time spent moving through a landscape that asks you to slow down, pay attention, and carry only what matters.
Leaving the High Country felt quieter than arriving. No sense of completion, no ceremony, just the slow return to sealed roads and reception bars, the rhythm of hooves replaced by engines. Yet the country had already done its work.
In the days that followed, that rhythm surfaced unexpectedly. In the comfort of simple systems. In the satisfaction of effort that leads somewhere. In the preference for fewer things done well. The kind of lessons that don’t announce themselves, only reveal their value over time.
The photos and stories aren’t just a record of where we rode, but how we moved through it, deliberately, together, and in step with a place shaped by generations long before us. The dust washed off easily enough.
The cadence didn’t.
Words & Photography by Bryce Hocking.
