Rollercoaster Ramble - a trip to Mt Typo

By Greg Shepherd (reprinted from The Hosteller, Winter 1984)

Imagine this. The Victorian Alps is a fairground. Mt. Typo to Mt. Bennie - two of the lesser known peaks in this archipelago of mountains - are the start and finish of a roller coaster ride over the undulating countryside tucked in behind Whitfield. Total vertical elevation gain over two days some 1500 metres. Total elevation loss - 1600 metres.

The ride begins, of course, in Batman Avenue, like other YHA bushwalks on Norm White's van confusingly labelled Les White: Furniture Removals and Bushwalking Parties', The Youth Hostels sticker on the back gives the game away. At 6.29 precisely: contact - the motor whirrs into life. The hold is secured and the great matchbox on wheels shudders into motion. With an inertial jolt Stephen Lake, Walks Secretary, is jerked back into his seat. Soon we are cruising along the Maroondah Highway; destination Yea for tea. The interior of the van is nouveau Jika Jika; idle conversation breaks out. Friday's Age is rationed around page by page. Someone produces a copy of Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance and stares at page 67 for half an hour. One can almost sense the ghostly presence of the myriad lounge suites which have occupied Norm's van, jostling with bookcases, washing baskets and lampstands.

On the outskirts of Yea we slow to warp factor five; someone suggests that the Booking Form contains a disclaimer against motion sickness. The party descends like a heavenly host on the take-away shops, carrying off all manner of chiko rolls, hamburgers and salad sandwiches.

Our e.t.a. for the campsite is 12 p.m. We are a shade overtime. Tents are erected in a thin fog alongside a trestle bridge over the Rose River. Most of the party have never been to this part of the country before. After morning ablutions the van sets off again, in completely the wrong direction to the one we intend to go. Twenty minutes later, catching a glimpse of Mt Buffalo, the error is rectified. Mt Typo, and its nest of associated peaks, presents a curiously surreal spectacle in a landscape pockmarked by basaltic outcrops (remember Picnic at Hanging Rock).

We leave the mother ship at the Bennies, a homestead in the vicinity of Mt Typo, and begin scrambling up through bracken clogged valleys to a rocky spur which should lead to the summit. Some elementary rock climbing over conglomerate (good practice for Federation Peak) brings us out on top.

'But it's the wrong summit!' points out one of the party. The leader has imprudently issued maps in photocopied form showing the hypothetical route. 'Oh. well, never mind. It's a high point, isn't it?' 'That depends on your point of view', rumbles the disgruntled one. 'Where's the map', says a third. 'At least we've got a summit to look forward to. Give us a peek', Beam me down to Norm's van says the disgruntled one' 'I say', chirps the leader, 'let's name this peak ... let's call it Big Dipper,' and disappears down the side of the ridge muttering 'Follow me'. 'Do We have a choice?' they chorus. But they follow. A canditate for the Bushwalking and Mountaincraft Leadership Certificate Course is furiously scribbling in his memo pad.

The lunch spot is chosen more on the basis of time rather than convenience. It is an overgrown knoll overlooking another overgrown knoll. Apart from people watching, food watching is one of the great preoccupations of bushwalkers. Camembert, fruitcake and figs are standard fare. After forty minutes the leader says 'Care for a digestive stroll?' 'How far?' 'We'll play it by ear'.

The stroll takes the party through another frenetic round of bushbashing onto a four wheel drive track - a merciful relief to the lacerated lower limbs of party members. The campsite, a lush green sward valley by a bubbling brook, is reached by the civilised hour of noon. Refreshments are taken once the tents are erected and a campfire started. 'Billy tea all round?' 'With a twist of lemon', is the response.

One person has a silver dome of a tent - the latest Taiwan Xerox of a popular more expensive western brand. Fears are expressed - that local farmers, believing that a UFO has landed, will arrive with shotguns. A movie scenario is plotted. Before taking nourishment a vigorous game of frisbee soccer is arranged - that is until the frisbee Is broken in half. 'It had a hairline crack', we explain to the owner, a whimpering Stephen Lake, as we deposit the mitotic fragments at his feet.

After nourishment we play a round of circle games; everyone in the full throttle of infantile regression. Everyone is very excited. Some quiet songs and lateral thinking puzzles before the cup of Milo. Some naughty bushwalkers linger. 'Come on now, tomorrow's a big day. Off to bed!' 'Can't we just wait until the skin forms on my Milo? 'Oh, all right.'

Tomorrow dawns big, bright and beautiful. The campsite looks like a Buvelot painting in the morning mist. We plan to ascend the next uphill section of our rollercoaster ride, Mt View, by 11am. Maps are consulted, water replenished, and then the long grind - 'More bushbashing, ugh' - begun. Atop the mountain we even find a cairn but alas no view.

'Was it all worth it?' mutters the disgruntled one.

Retracing our path through the bush we lose our way. Well, perhaps that is overstating it. But there is a point where we come across a trail and the party is equally divided about which way to go. North or south. Not a small navigational quibble, surely? Stephen offers some advice to our embattled leader: 'When in doubt, mumble, when In trouble, delegate. Finally he makes a decision, 'South,' he declares, I think'. Happily, 'south' brings the party out onto a four wheel drive track and familiar terrain. Number one, though he is no longer entirely disgruntled, is far from perfectly gruntled. The leader is now playing the white rabbit, pulling his watch from his waist pocket saying 'We have to be at the van by 2pm ... must'nt be late, mustn't be late.'

There is time, however, for a spot of swimming over lunch in a tributary of the Rose River. Back down through the farmlands the cicadas are singing a song of welcome for the lost tribe. Through a farm gate, out onto a dusty road and a one and a half kilometre sprint to the finish where Norm is waiting patiently with the mother ship.

How different is the trip back? These toughened weary, wizened compatriots. Scarcely able to amble across the highway at Euroa for yet another take- away tea, they then recline on any patch of available horizontal in the van in many attitudes of physical a exhaustion. At Batman Avenue the van disgorges a healthier and happier load of bushwalkers, their bodies weary, but their spirits uplifted as they emerge onto the 'saved' daylight of the city. It has been a ramble to remember, though number four is still only on page 68 of Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance.