The Melba Highway threads its way to the High Country and plains through farmlands and small towns. Past vineyards glutted with dark red grapes, olive groves and moss trunked orchards already ravished, the last windfalls rotting on the ground. Climbing upwards through eucalpt forests towards rolling country where trees stand in lines or cluster on hill tops. Four wheel drives, huge trucks bearing fruit, or groceries or logs flash by. The road skirts the shoulders of hills, crosses brooks which bubble like apple-cider and flowing rivers. Pale grasses by the wayside nod with ripe seed heads. Trees thin, then dwindle and disappear. The sky opens out. Cattle ponder and huddle in the shade under scattered trees and flocks of sheep wander in huge paddocks. Overhead the soft hug of sky pales into mist at the margins. Dandelion-puff clouds race past, their fleet shadows rolling like ocean waves across the land. A crisp wind scatters leaves across the road that churn and turn as the traffic passes.

The highway cuts through a narrow gap between hills, and spread out before and below lays a valley scattered with homesteads, roofs and windows glinting in the sunlight. The road slopes steadily down - more and more often it crosses bridges, the wheels clack clacking over the wooden spans. Trees crowd closely to the edges and partly conceal the sun. Shadows congest. Livid clouds can be seen swarming in from the northeast covering the face of the sun. The car smoothly churns up the miles. Lake Eildon crossed with only a scattering of puddles glinting in the sunlight below. Its lake bed bare under the bridge. We pass the two sentinel hills, the Paps. Rounding a knoll, the sudden, majestic sight of Mount Buller. The dying sun appears it colours the mountain with glowing rose, hazed with somber gold. Motes of sunlight pelt down like sparks. Nearing Mansfield, a sparse shower of rain passes over, leaving an archway of pastel colours in the sky. Mists rise languidly over fields. Through them the haunting images of trees loom.

Slowing, we drive through Mansfield with its many bright cafes, gift shops and inviting pubs dotting the highway. We veer left onto the Whitfield road and then right onto Barwite Road and left again onto the Old Tolmie Road and start climbing upwards again as dusk sets in. The car breaks suddenly throwing me forward and back in my seatbelt. It swerves to avoid a wombat which lumbers across the roadway. We look back to see him slowly moving on, hoping that he will find his way across without further mishap. Our ears pop as the car climbs higher. We turn right and below us in the dusk the tumbling dark outlines of the mountains can just be seen as the first stars flicker in the sky. I climb out the car, stretch and open the gate. We have arrived.