I had just started my first job and some of my co-workers wanted to go away all together for the weekend. Cheryl had been a pony club member as a youngster and she urged us to go horse riding in the Grampians, a beautiful mountainous bushland area quite a distance from the city.
“Fresh air, forests, mountains, lakes and horses. It will be great.”
Neville was a waterskier with access to a friend’s ski boat. He wanted all of us to go skiing on the cooling pond of the Coal Mountain power station which was closer to the city. “It’s like a warm bath with a bit of steam coming off it” he said.
Lance knew more about the Coal Mountain Lake. “It’s not steam, it’s smoke from the generators” he said. “And if the power company catches you they’ll impound the boat”.
We had visions of trying to water ski on a smoky smelly lake while fleeing from the security boat and trying not to fall off and get sucked into the power station cooling water intake.
“I c-can’t swim very well, but I’m q-quite good at sitting. I’d rather go h-horse riding” said Franco. We all agreed with him.
“Hi ho Silver!” piped Kerry, the office drama queen, urging on an imaginary horse.
We drove out in convoy to the Grampians, breathing in the mountain air and soaking up the sights of the towering eucalypt forest. We couldn’t wait to get out there on the mountain trails. We imagined ourselves offering warm encouragement to our trusty steeds as they carefully carried us to our next rest stop. We would reward them with apples or carrots and they would whinny gratefully.
The trail ride leaders were Vince and Vicki, a love struck newly married couple who only had eyes for one another. V and V showed us how to walk, trot and canter. As they had already taught the horses how to do these things we imagined it would be one big, happy, family excursion.
We thought we might start slowly with a friendly walk or a slow trot while all singing cowboy songs like “I’m An Old Cow Hand From The Rio Grande” or whistling the theme to “Mr Ed” in unison. We were mistaken.
From the beginning, the horses seem to have their own agenda. As Vince and Vicki rode ahead somewhere, oblivious to us, our horses broke into a fast canter, even the old ones. It seemed to me that the horses were just a little too eager to jolt us around.
With a snort from the lead horse, Long John, all their equine ears went back flat against their horse heads, and their pace picked up into a wild rolling canter, almost a gallop. Even Cheryl looked scared.
These horses knew we were novices. They knew far more about horse riding than us. What was their plan? Long John was neighing and braying at his co-conspirators, occasionally turning his head to check that they were all following his instructions. We lurched up and down and side to side as if we were water skiing on a rough sea. V and V seemed to have disappeared into some bush love nest. We were on our own. Just us and the horses. One by one we fell off the horses onto the track or into the bushes. Lance was thrown into a tree and was left hanging on to a horizontal branch so that he looked like he was clutching (you guessed it) a lance.
With all the shouts and screams V and V re-appeared, breezily urging us to hop back on the horses. We had all signed liability waivers so they weren’t overly concerned about our injuries. Kerry had to be helped back onto her horse, Doublecross, who managed to lean towards her at the crucial moment. Kerry slipped right over the horse and fell off on the other side, thus making her wounds symmetrical. Battered and bruised we eventually all got going again. The horses, who had been busily cropping a juicy patch of grass next to the trail, were very reluctant to leave. This particular spot looked like a favourite snack bar for these broncos and I thought that perhaps their choice of location for the rough riding was not random.
After a jolting ride we arrived at the top of a hill overlooking the beautiful aqua waters of Lake Bellfield. V and V told us that the lake was the main water supply for the nearby towns. On hearing this, most of the horses decided to dump a load of manure where it could best wash into the lake and pollute the drinking water. I was getting the feeling that these nags understood far more than I gave them credit for.
At the lake lookout we had an opportunity to take photos. My horse, Rattlebones, was twisting around like a restless puppy while someone tried to photograph us both.
“Don’t worry about him” said V and V. “He just wants to be photographed on his good side. He’s as proud as a peacock.”
Eventually Rattlebones’ vanity was satisfied and we all continued along the narrow track, bordered on both sides by thick bush. Franco’s horse, Captain Flint, suddenly shied and started prancing around in a panic. Two black snakes had slithered onto the trail. Franco was very eager not to be thrown off the Captain onto the narrow snake infested track and clung to his neck as if his life depended on it, which it did. But Franco was rapidly slipping down the side of the horse. When Franco hit the ground he took to his heels like a sprinter, chasing after Captain Flint who was soon a cloud of dust in the distance.
Meanwhile, Cheryl’s horse, Plankdancer, was stamping on the ground in a bad tempered way and then, with a couple of swift one-two movements, managed to crush the snakes and kick them into the bushes. Cheryl wiped the sweat off her brow, patted the nag’s neck and vowed to include him in her will.
We all started riding again and as we came into a clearing we saw Wally the cook. He had a big bushranger beard, filthy jeans and dirty check shirt and was cooking up a storm of meat and local bush tucker for our lunch. The horses snacked on the grassy greens conveniently growing nearby while we sampled Wally’s greasy fat sausages and lamb chops. Neville’s horse Greedy lived up to his name and started munching on the culinary piece de resistance, Wally’s Waldorf Salad, flavoured with beer mayonnaise and tomato sauce and garnished with potato crisps. Wally loudly cursed Greedy using some horsey oaths that none of us had ever heard before. Greedy got the message and resentfully went back to the grass à la verge.
After lunch we set out again on the ride, feeling a bit queasy, and a bit uneasy. What other tricks had these ungrateful ungulates planned for us?
The horses knew they were homeward bound and as horses do, they picked up the pace.
“They’re just hordies heading for home” said Cheryl as she hung on with a look of quiet desperation. In fact the horses were wild and unstoppable. I didn’t matter to those brumbies how steep or rough the track was, or how hard we pulled on the reins. That ride home marked a new pinnacle of terror for most of us.
Somehow we got back to the stables with no further injuries. As we shakily dismounted, the horses showed their affection for us by turning around and dropping another load of manure at our feet.
We thanked V and V and returned to our cars and found that in our absence, some thieves had broken into three of our vehicles and stolen a GPS device, Neville’s Ithing and a bag of apples we had brought. As we talked about the robbery the horses started neighing and pawing the ground and tossing their heads about and had distinct “Hah Hah Hah” expressions on their mugs. We now knew why the thieves had bothered with the apples and who had planned it all. We also knew who had had the last laugh on our trail ride, and it wasn’t us. The horses, we concluded, had taken their revenge for generations of drudgery. No doubt they had a few good heehaws in the stable that night as they munched those apples. We were too stiff and sore to care. The warm fragrant waters of Coal Mountain Lake seemed very attractive for our next getaway.
