Camping in the High Country

Legends, Lies and Legitimate facts from Dargo
(A short story about camping in the high county )

Up in the hills above Melbourne lying in the bottom of the Alpine Shire, there is a little 18th century cattle town called Dargo. The place has a history like our wild west and you can listen around the campfire to hear of icy covered snowfields, tales of ‘headless horsemen’, and of the fools who died for worthless gold. Truth be told, the man from snowy river, swept up his girl and rode her through this infamous countryside.

“Are we there yet?” I call out feeling anxious after four and a half hours, winding through hills and countryside dodging wallaby’s, and roo road kill. Brian and I are headed out camping with our ol‘ friend Richie, his new wife Jo and her best friend Mary, in what they call ‘the Alps,’ (which seem more like hills to me.) Melbourne city has been fantastic fun with the common wealth games setting the busy sporty pace, but we’re all looking forward to some peace and quiet only rugged outdoor camping can bring. Josephine clasps her hands from the front seat and exclaims, “I’m getting excited, we’re almost there.”
Feeling unprepared for this adventure but still geared up for sleeping in hammocks, hiking mountains, and cooking meals over the campfire, we pull up to the Quagmungee walnut farm, where our friend Richie spent a great deal of his childhood. Like excited children released from the car, we run off to explore, stunned and amazed at what we have found. Dangling from thick cables and wooden planks, a spectacular suspension, walking bridge expands across the Dargo river, leading to our private camping paradise. We grab the coolers and bags and run up the bridge playfully swinging, trying to topple each other. Then rest half way to take in the specking evening light playing through the canopy of trees and dappling the river below. “Isn’t it just lovely,” Mary takes in a deep gulp of air and releases a weighed and exhilarating breath.

Where Families Retreat
To the right an old wooden cabin with a generous covered porch sets under shaded trees, with grape vines rising up to the windows. Inside, a massive stone fireplace commands the center of the room and an old log table is surrounded by sets of bunk beds. The front yard is a playground for rabbits pecking at the landscaped flower gardens and nibbling the fruits dropped from the surrounding trees, (which I’ve just noticed will accommodate our hammocks beautifully.) To the left and highlighted by the setting sun are rows of voluptuous walnut trees, with leaves waving hello and chunky nuts ready to burst from their limbs.
Strait ahead, our rugged camping experience turns luxurious as we set our sights on a long home facing the babbling river, accommodating private rooms, fluffy beds and picture window views of the impeccably kept farm. A long wooden table fit for a crowd leads to a giant family style kitchen with an old wood stove, stocked and ready to be lit for the next meal. Low couches encircle a hefty fireplace, inviting a cozy fireside night. The house is stylishly decorated to theme with thick candle lanterns, harvest fruits and Australian motif. Photos on the wall, bring us closer to the three families that have brilliantly created this private club house. Studying the generations of collaged photos we become a part of their vacations, holidays, and harvest seasons, making us feel honored to be on the ‘invitation only’ guest list to this family resort. What makes Quagmungee extraordinary, is that it’s all powered by the sun and watered by collection. Everything is skillfully engineered, so that we have hot water showers, cold refrigerators, electricity and camp stoves. (Oh, and did I mention a pool table, darts and a golf course on rolling hills?)

Childs Play
Yipee, Woohoo we all cry out darting from place to place, wound up and undecided , for there is so much to do and only a few days to get it all done. We gather to make a game plan, and settle on an evening stroll to highlight the walnut harvesting season, and then hang our hammocks by the river. Richie will cook a steak dinner over the fire, accompanied by a fine red wine. Tomorrow we’ll pan for gold, hammock, play a round of golf, hike the mountain, hammock again, swing from the bridge, go for a swim, play more golf and bocchi,, hammock, ride the tractors, gather wood, hammock, and settle into the evening with campfires and a nocturnal hike.
Tomorrow comes too soon, and we’re not hiking, playing, panning, swimming or gathering, as we’ve lounged around drinking coffee, reading and enjoying the music of morning. Green and red parrots sing in the trees over my hammock and shimmer their fluorescent colors highlighted by the sun as they take flight to the apple trees. The kookaburra bird cackles a hearty infectious laugh , until we’ve all joined their round of giggling bliss. A cool breeze whistles through the trees and you can feel the end of summer beginning to turn the leaves golden. Everything feels perfectly golden at the Quagmungee Farm. Perhaps the gold fever still hovers lightly in this air.
A motivated moment prompts my ‘first ever’ golf game, and we traipse through the walnut trees, smacking balls into the river, over the hills, under the brush and into the wombat holes. Not too embarrassing for my first time, but I polish my technique hitting & dodging fallen walnuts at the others. A game of bocchi follows, which becomes unappealing when the rumble of an old Massey Ferguson tractor emerges from the barn and takes us four wheeling , into the valleys, over the hills and along the horse pasture. It simply couldn’t be better. That is, until we realize the second tee off along the river, has a nice swim hole just below. Now, the afternoon round of golf includes a quick dip in the cool stream, drying in the warm sun on the way to the next green. Mary and Jo caddie the tractor along providing new balls, clubs, laughter, and cool beer at each hole, until we all resolve to retire “back to the club house.”

Lime Light of the Fire
No rugged camping experience would be complete without campfires and stories. This is where Richie’s acting and singing career takes the lime light of the glowing stage. We listen intently to stories that have been passed down generations, and left to the children who were raised on this farm. Unsolved mysteries of decapitated horsemen found on nearby settlements leave a chill, quivering down my spine. Tales of lost Chinese gold miners who spent a hundred years digging crevasses with small pick axes, only to live, work and die, never realizing bad directions sent them to the wrong mountain. And yes it is true “The man from Snowy River,” movie was based on the life of Jack Treasure who settled these high plains, and much of the film is done here in Dargo. The night takes on a musical note as the guitar surfaces, and are serenaded to the new released songbook of tunes, written by Richie this weekend. The music trails on and the giant fire pit becomes a stage and the fire itself, a living, breathing, growing sculpture. Sinking deeper into the flames and burning cinders, Josephine makes out figures in the radiating coals, like I do with clouds in the sky. Her little girl with a lollypop changes into a a scary alien, so she heads strait off to bed.

Bush Bashing, Literally
I wake from a dream; Kangaroos are hopping through the orchard and into my room. Opening my eyes, I look to see if they are on my veranda? No, I’ve overslept, and they’ve bound back up to the hills earlier in the morning. Suddenly remembering, we’re all hiking to the top of the mountain today, I leap from bed (no that’s a lie, I never ‘leap’ anywhere in the morning hours,) but I do meander out to find that there are already two drop-outs for this hike It’s a quick hustle to commence a bush walking tour, before we all realize it’s getting too hot and settle into hammocks instead. The hike up is dusty, dry and tiring, but the views of the layered blue hazy mountains descending below, are impressive. The large farm is now just a little green square in a vast alpine range. Feeling weary and hungry we descend the first mountain lowering into a valley of chunky foliage, turning to thick underbrush , turning to solid impassible bush. We have taken a wrong turn and become separated, each searching for a way out of the prickly, slicing scrub and end up crawling on all fours down the mountain. “Where are you Mary?” I call out. I can hear crackling from up above and look to see if the brush is moving. “Can you stand up?” I can see the low trees moving below and call out to Brian. “Can you see the sky?” A bit of cursing comes from below, so I continue on the new wombat trail I’ve just found. Granted , a wombat is only 2 feet tall and I hope he doesn’t join this trek, but I’m grateful for his miniature cave, carved under the dense sharp, juniper-like hill side. Mary and I join trails and continue crawling down the hill laughing, as we have the rare opportunity to “See the bush through a wombat’s eyes.”
Finding a clearing, we see that Brian has simply used his face and arms as tools for bashing his way out of the bush as he’s covered in stickers, blood dripping and sliced all over his exposed body . With twig and moss tangled hair, spiders crawling down our pants, wombat poo covered knees and dirty sweat dripping our brow, we stagger into ‘camp paradise’ wondering why we ever left? On our final approach the kookaburra cackles a mocking laugh which, “We don’t think is very funny!” The river calls, and we limp down the banks with our chairs to ice our swollen, blistered feet in the cool river. Food, beer and laughter curb the pain, until we realize we’ll be running out of it all. Time to head to town for supplies.

The Dargo Pub
Blink and you might miss the town of Dargo. It’s a place where they reckon “Ya aren’t from around these parts, hey?” before you even get out of the car. Friendly enough, we’re greeted by all ten of them, all commenting on the weather. The woman in the kitchen comes out to see the newbies in town. The guy ‘drinkin a jug’ on the porch, seems delighted to see a girl of any kind, and the lady at the general store wants to know “What brings you up here?
Take away beer, is only available at the public drinking room, which happens to be, the famous Dargo Pub. Step inside this time machine and you’re in for a history lesson of a ‘raising a town.’ The place is full of dusty relics and photos of it’s glory days, with infamous ranchers like Jack Treasure keeping bar stools warm in the winter snow. Today a nicely dressed man sits at the bar enjoying his meaty meal and the pungent smell of kangaroo steak hangs heavily in the wooden pub. It’s the kind of place where you will feel at home as everyone and every thing, is invited into the Dargo Pub. It commemorates and boasts the tallest bar around, so that you can still ride your horse inside for a drink. Because they say, “A man should never have to get off his horse, for a beer.” …and that’s the town of Dargo in a walnut shell.

Leaving Legends Alive
The day’s get hotter and more relaxing as we melt into a schedule of tranquility, which is difficult to sever. But, as another day breaks, it brings us to the conclusion of our perfect camping paradise. Yes, all good things must end to make way for new beginnings. We’ve eaten most the food, finished the best of beer, played hard, rested light, and created countless treasured memories that will be etched in our lives forever. The Legend of Sleepy Dargo will live on, and we leave with it… A new trail down the mountain, Mary’s hole in 2, Jo’s infectious laugh, Brenda’s one and only perfect Parr 3, “The world according to Richie,” Brian’s power stroke, a few balls left in wombat holes, and a wall of new photos.

-A special tribute to the Young Family and friends for sharing their sanctuary with us.