The day started well enough. It was Saturday, 6th ofJune , 1992 and the six of us; Mark, Robyn, Craig, Julie, Marg and I had booked a cabin at the Lakeside Caravan Park near Mansfield for the long week-end. The weather was looking good and we took off in two cars to visit Craig’s Hut, the mountain shack featured in the movie “The Man from Snowy River”.
The first part of our drive took us along a pretty mountain valley through Merrijig, and at the general store at the foot of Mt. Buller we were conned into hiring chains for the day (prospect of snow was practically nil).
We turned onto the Mt Sirtling Circuit Road, which had a reasonably good gravel surface, until we reached Telephone Box Junction where some workman were busy building what looked like a hotel or a bistro of some kind. We were informed by them that about 20kms up the track we would come to a turn off from where, after parking our car, we’d be able to hike along a four wheel drive track which would lead us to Craig’s Hut.
The workmen assured us that the track although fairly bumpy would be safely accessible by sedan car. It was suggested that we use only one vehicle and the six of us continued the journey in Mark’s car, a Holden Commodore, which turned out to be a mistake.
As we proceeded along the track, the surface became rougher and very bumpy with some of the ruts nearly a foot deep. The track was covered with rocks the size of footballs, and after about 12 kms we were travelling not much quicker than walking pace. The passengers had to frequently get out to lighten the car load and Mark would weave his way across the deep ruts and avoid the large stones.
The road became so bad that at 17kms we decided to park the car and walk the rest of the way to the hut. After a fairly steep climb for about 45 minutes, we arrived at Craig’s Hut. It brought back memories of the scenes in the film and seeing spectacular views all around us you could understand why the film makers chose that particular site.
We rested, ate our lunch, and after numerous photographs we descended back down the track to the car. Upon arriving a few of us decided to walk the first couple of kilometres to ease the burden on the car. We then all got back in, but after driving slowly for only about 1 and 1/2 kilometres the road became so bad again that we all got out once once more and trudged along the track with the car in close pursuit.
It was then that we noticed that the left front tyre was as flat as a pancake and we would have to change it. That’s when the shit hit the fan. The little slot which was supposed to accommodate the end of Mark’s jack had busted off rendering it useless. It was already about 3.30pm by then and the chance of another car coming along was practically out of the question and with our own car more than 15kms away, the prospect of us having to spend the night on the mountain seemed likely.
My initial thought was not to panic, but all the same there was no time to waste on indecision. With me being the fittest (I was jogging every night) it was decided that I jog the 15kms back to our car and come back with a functional jack.
Armed with our car keys and grim determination I set off on my little marathon. The road was rough and difficult to run on, but I made good ground for the first 15-20 minutes. The track then became steep and I was forced to walk for long stretches at a time.
The others, apart from some misgivings about letting me take off by myself, happily resigned themselves to a fairly long wait. The boys played cricket (I don’t know how) and the girls had a good old chin-wag (as you can imagine).
After jogging and walking at a brisk pace for about an hour I began to realise that this was going to take much longer than I had anticipated. My estimation was that I wasn’t even halfway yet. I continued with determination and by now all my clothes were soaking wet with perspiration. It was getting cold now and I couldn’t afford to slacken my pace and as I didn’t possess a watch, I had no idea what time it was.
Back at the car, the girls got out of the cold late afternoon air and the boys occupied themselves by throwing stones at trees and scaring the girls, pretending to be boogiemen. At one time, Craig produced a small mushroom and declared that was to be their evening meal.
About 3/4 of the way, the track once again rose and I was forced to a walking pace once again. It was now almost dark and evening mist was beginning to settle on the mountain making visibility very limited. I was tired and pretty exhausted and the glimmer of lights (the workmen were still at the bistro) was a very welcome sight. Ten minutes later I reached the car, explained our predicament to the surprised workers, checked the jack and got into the car to go back and rescue the others. It was 5.40pm by now and pitch dark.
Meanwhile, back at the ‘crippled’ commodore, the rest of the crew were now huddled in the car for some warmth and with the windows fogged up, visibility was non-existent. The mood was sombre and not a word was spoken.
“This is not funny anymore”, each one of them thought, and images of ‘the old man’, who was 50 next birthday, collapsed, or wandering off the track in darkness appeared to them all, although no-one spoke a word for fear of saying the wrong thing and panicking the others. I’m not sure who had the lousy end of the bargain: my exhausting trip or their long boring wait.
I finally arrived back at Mark’s car and every-one heaved a collective sigh of relief and the good humour and high spirits were immediately restored.
We changed the tyre, drove back slowly, and after dropping the chains off at the chalet, arrived back at our caravan park at about a quarter to nine.
