Part One: 1913
Chapter One
December 1913
The black stallion thundered up the steep hill, following the narrow trail through the thick tangle of alpine gum trees, heading for the distant ridge. In the saddle, eighteen-year-old Jack Campbell let loose a whoop of unbridled joy, adrenalin surging through his body as he gripped the reins in one hand, the other ensuring that the wide-brimmed Akubra hat he wore over his close-cut fair hair remained in place, the wind ripping at it, trying to lift it off his head.
Sunrise had only occurred a few minutes before, darkness still dominating in the rugged scrub, yet the golden light of the new day sat like a halo on the ridge towards which Campbell’s surging horse, aptly named Streak, was rapidly coming upon. He had been riding since the first slither of light, knew that once he gained the height of the ridge the gorgeousness of a high country sunrise would be there in all it’s glory for him to enjoy once more.
It was the first morning in the last four that Campbell had been able to come out and ride, for an early-summer rain storm had swept through the region, soaking everything and everyone in it’s path, nearly-continuous rain for three straight days, and while the countryside definitely needed the torrential precipitation – these days, entire country seemed in a perpetual state of drought – it had frustrated Campbell, for his daily activities had mostly been restricted to work indoors, or dashing from one undercover to the next, trying not to get completely saturated in the process. It hadn't exactly been horse riding weather.
As usual on a good morning, Campbell had been awake before dawn, rolling out of bed and leaving the modest dwelling he shared with his mother – his father, Bruce, had died five years earlier; Campbell seemed to find about a hundred reasons each day to miss him each and every day – and into the saddle very soon after, ready for an early-morning ride to remind himself of how lucky he was to live where he did. Despite the death of his father, Campbell felt very blessed to have grown up in the community in which he had.
Like every other day, Campbell was dressed in what had become the unofficial uniform of the Australian stockman: check-patterned shirt, tan pants, hand-made riding boots and the long, waterproof jacket, reinforced across the shoulders to protect against the elements, and cut especially to be worn on horseback. Crammed on his head, at all times while outdoors, was a wide-brimmed Akubra hat, as sturdy as his boots and jacket, and another safeguard against the cold and the heat. The only difference between summer and winter was the warm sheepskin jacket that came out during the colder months and either a long- or a short-sleeve shirt depending on the season, flannelette or not.
Behind Campbell, a chestnut-coloured mare struggled gainfully to close the widening gap, the other rider the same height as Campbell and just as skilled, yelling good-natured insults as he fell back even further, perhaps twenty or thirty yards between them. Campbell loved the thrill of the race, dug his heels into the horse’s flank, doing it without any great malice, and felt the powerful stallion digging deep to find that the new reserve of speed that he’d been hoping for, the late burst of strength that always seemed to be there. It seemed that the horse did it before he’d made his less-than-subtle suggestion, and that was fine by Campbell. His favourite sort of horse was an intuitive one.
Coming up over the crest of the ridge, the tree line left behind, suddenly a wide-open view that stretched for miles in every direction, there was a victory of sorts in that, and it was also where Campbell reined in his horse for a well-deserved rest. There was a victory in being the first to clatter wildly over the ridge, first to be bathed in a flood of golden sunlight often momentarily, before beginning the downward decent, a slope as steep as the one the two horsemen had just come up, though more dangerous from top to bottom, unseen holes, uneven rocks and other nasty traps that could hobble a horse as quickly as a mountain storm could roll in.
This morning, though, the high point, a treeless stretch of the high, narrow ridge – all the roads and almost-roads in this upper altitude area were either leading to old bush huts, long since become relics, or trails for moving prime Snowy Mountains cattle above or below the snowline depending on the season – was where Campbell stopped. He leaned forward, patting the stallion’s flanks, breathing a few words of encouragement while staring out at the endless bush, the rugged yet beautiful landscape that was now drenched in early-morning sunlight so bright that Campbell had to shield his eyes with his free hand, the sound of the birds, the smell of gum trees, the fabric of the only place Campbell had known in his eighteen years.
Streak had pulled up well after a tough early-morning ride, for which Campbell was immensely glad. This black stallion was the best horse he’d ever ridden, a wonderful mix of speed and stamina, the offspring of a rural racetrack champion from across the border in Victoria, a horse he’d identified as a restless mountain-bred colt and, with some help, had caught, tamed and trained, to the point where he was very much the envy of so many riders in the district. Streak had been his first great triumph on the way to what Campbell hoped was a long and successful career as a horse breaker.
Moments later, the chestnut mare came to a sudden stop, the animal breathing hard, almost as hard as it’s rider who plucked the Akubra from his head, running a hand through a thick shock of black hair as he took in the majestic view and allowed himself a moment to take a few deep breaths of the warm mountain air, crystal clear and good for the heart, unlike the city air, so choked with pollution and other things neither man wanted to think about.
A quick breather was in order. The two riders had come almost straight up for the last twenty minutes, a tough ride over rugged, uneven and potentially dangerous territory, particularly when it was still very wet underfoot, but the two men were veteran horsemen, with advanced skills that belied their relative youth, and had ridden over far worse in their time, in far worse weather than there was this morning.
“There’s something wrong with you, mate,” Campbell decided, grinning as he slipped from the saddle, watching the other rider appraise his horse. “You must be getting old or something.”
“Oh yeah?” Harry Price, also eighteen, and wearing almost-identical clothing to his best friend Campbell, challenged good-naturedly, dismounting from his house, patting it’s sweat-soaked flanks. His mare was called Banjo, in deference more to the famous bush poet A.B. ‘Banjo’ Patterson than the instrument. The two were best friends. “Last I checked, Jacko, I’m actually a month younger than you.”
The two had been friends for as long as either could remember, which meant that the winner of their every-morning race got to tease the loser mercilessly for the rest of the day. That was the grand prize. Today, it was Campbell's. “What’s your excuse for losing the race the last three days we’ve come up here?”
Price had a ready response and an even more ready grin. “Clearly I’m at my best when the weather’s cold. It’s bloody hot today.”
“It’ll get worse, I reckon,” Campbell decided, nodding. There was very little cloud, and the sun already made the distant landscape shimmer. Summers were as hot as winters were cold in the mountains. “Seems like winter only finished last week and we’re already getting around to sweating to death.”
Far beneath the ridge on which the two men stopped to rest themselves as much as their mounts – it was a hard, physical ride out of the valley, a tough test for any rider who came from the plains or, worse, the city and thought they could best the mountain stockmen – was the roaring Snowy River, tracking up from Victoria, across the state border and into New South Wales. The border a barely-recognised imaginary line in a valley, in a part of the country where it was very possible to walk from one state to the next without really knowing it, and without really caring, either.
The river, swollen due to prolonged rain that had saturated the ground with regularity, particularly in the last few days, and made working the land a muddy and frustrating enterprise for weeks since, was the most recognisable part of the region, thanks to the words of A.B. ‘Banjo’ Patterson’s famous tails of the colt from old regret who’d gotten away and the ride to get the colt back. If Campbell heard that poem one more time, he was liable to shoot the person who was reciting it. There was more to the Snowy Mountains than that one piece of literature, and anyone who knew the region knew that.
Water glinting spectacularly as it was kissed by the early morning sun, the Snowy River cut a wide path through the steep valley. On mornings like this, when visibility was perfect, it was easy for Campbell to see why so many had been captivated by Patterson’s words. Along the left side, also fairly visible despite the sun’s glare, was the stagecoach trail that led deeper into the mountains in both directions, built into the steep bank as close to the river as possible.
Although the railway passed through the high country on the way to and from Melbourne, it hadn't yet been cut into the deepest parts of the Snowy Mountains, so the venerable and famous Cobb & Co. stagecoach company still provided transport for those seeking the smaller towns and settlements in the region. There was a main route through the mountains from Cooma on the northern side, in New South Wales, across the Victorian border and all the way to Melbourne, and a series of secondary routes that featured less frequent services, and stretched deep into the high country.
The creation of the rough road for the Melbourne service out of the rugged nothingness of the upper high country nearly thirty years before had been nothing short a triumph of engineering and a triumph, too, of the workmanship of the high country men who had combined to open up the depths of their region to visitors from all over the country, shedding blood and sweat in the process. Campbell doubted that men from any other part of Australia would’ve had such success. High country men were the toughest.
In the history of the Snowy Mountains, the grand opening of the first stage coach rode through the deep wilderness was one of those important days that no one would forget. For Campbell and Price, that moment carried with it a little more personal importance: both their fathers had been a part of the process, spending many nights away from home – the work hadn't stopped because of the snow season; if anything, the men had worked harder than before – earning their stripes. Their sons, now, wanted to earn their stripes in some similar endeavour. When they weren’t breaking horses and careening through the countryside on horseback, of course.
If there was a better view in this neck of the woods, Campbell hadn't seen it – and he’d seen more than his fair share of the Snowy Mountains on both sides of the border. The Victorians weren’t a bad bunch, some brilliant horsemen amongst them. In fact, there were many similarities between them and the New South Welshmen to their north, and no great rivalry between the two states. It was with Queensland that every self-respecting New South Wales resident had a problem, that titanic struggle, on the football field, cricket pitch, in the equestrian ring and on bush trails like this one, breakneck races, that had been going for as long as Campbell could remember, and longer, too.
Nestled in the trees, somewhere down in the steep valley carved out by the passage of water over literally trillions of years, was the tiny, sleepy mountain town of Island Bend in which Campbell and Price had been born, raised and educated. Now, their schooling but a distant memory, they worked on the outskirts at a cattle station, talented horse-handlers who spent long days driving cattle across the mountains, breaking in wild horses and working the land to provide a living. They basically did whatever they were told.
So many generations of Australian stockmen and bushies had come before them, doing the hard work that the countryside demanded. There would be similar work to be done for decades still, Campbell was sure. To him, not working the land seemed about as likely to happen as man setting foot on the moon, basically unthinkable. The arrival of automobiles and more advanced machinery aside, he was sure that there would always be meaningful work for a man and his horse, always places where motorcars just couldn’t reach, some work that machines just couldn’t do.
Working the land and riding a horse was a family rite of passage. Both men’s fathers and grandfathers had earned a solid living doing similar work, building the Snowy Mountains beef exportation trade, and neither Campbell nor Price could imagine doing anything else with their lives. It was an honest way to make a quid, and, more importantly, it let them spend most of their days on horseback, riding the high ridges, tracking across the ranges, enjoying spellbinding views of the high country, all while being paid for it. Under those pleasant circumstances, it was tough to be anything but happy.
“Your mare’s working out well, mate. She was a good buy.”
“Doesn’t have that extra burst of speed that yours seems to keep hidden til the end,” Price replied. He’d seen his friend tame the stallion and mould it into a perfect mount. “But I like her. No hesitation, you know? She just flies up these hills.”
Campbell chuckled at that. “If only she could, mate. Flying up here’s about the only bloody way you’d beat me at the moment!”
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