Over the Snowies

Today's map.

Barrelling east on my own, the trip took on a new feeling. I wasn't so worried about setting the right pace or stopping often enough for Trav's hamster bladder, but neither did I have anyone to share the excitement with any more.

I'd set myself the task of getting to Bega, down near the NSW south coast, where the cows smell like cows and cheese is in endless supply. On the map, it didn't look too far - maybe three hundred and something kilometres - so I planned to take a few scenic detours here and there and generally enjoy myself.

I crossed the border into Australia's most annoying nanny state and followed the Snowy Mountain Highway through hundreds of tortuous bends to Thredbo. On the way, I stopped for a glimpse of one of the engineering wonders of the world: the Snowy Hydro scheme.

A little later, I stopped in the bush to make tea and enjoy the mountain creek at Tom Groggin.

The Snowies seem to sneak up on you. After 160km of endless climbing and descending through valleys and cuttings, you suddenly feel the air temperature drop and see tall, orange alpine guide posts appear at the sides of the road. Without taking one of the chairlifts that climb the slopes near Mt Kosciuszko, you don't have an impression of being particularly high up at all. It's not until you meet the alpine architecture of Thredbo village that you are really convinced this area is a ski resort during spring.

Thredbo was populated with builders making repairs before the ski season, plus the odd, famous-looking, downhill mountain biker. Nothing much was open and the whole place felt a bit like a pair of fake breasts. The initial impression was strangely artificial and it wasn't any more appealing up close. There was lots of scaffolding supporting the four-storey chalets that make up most of the town and, without snow, it just didn't look right. After touring the streets, I ordered a sausage roll at the bakery and tried to avoid having it stolen by the local currawongs.

I've been to Thredbo in summer before, so I left for Jindabyne straight after lunch. This was a great part of the ride. The road was smooth and fast, with most corners posted at 75kph - just perfect for cracking on at a steady 100kph (and evading the national park visitor's fee).

Thinking I had plenty of time up my sleeve, I left the highway at Jindabyne and explored the banjo-country backroads around Dalgety. Dalgety is beautiful. I know this because you can see all of it from the t-intersection at its heart. Its famous bridge spans the once-mighty Snowy River, slowed to a trickle by the Snowy Hydro scheme. Engineering marvels have their cost. What's left of the river is still beautiful, though.

By the time I was done with Dalgety, the sun was sinking like a stone and I was still miles from Bega. I charged for Cooma, stopping only to help an unlucky bloke with a new BMW bike that decided to quit in the middle of nowhere. If that's what you get for buying a $20k ride with more electronics than the space shuttle, I'll stick to my old Honda, thanks very much. After a quick chat and a check that he had enough food and water, I left him to wait for BMW Roadside Assist to fix his bike and erase the incident from his memory.

I burned on down the road with the shadows stretching long in front of me. I was getting tired and stressed, so when I finally descended the range into Bega I took the first campsite I could find. I set up the tent on my own, ran through the motions of dinner and a shower, then flaked out in the tent and waited for sleep.