"There, don't you wish you could do that?"
Through the same dark dreary forest, and up some few more stony ranges, the road proceeds until it reaches Daly's station, a very beautiful spot, nestled down in a gully almost at the summit of one of the branches of the Devil's Pinch Range. I did not learn the name of the place, for the inhabitants, no doubt from the very out of-the-way place in which they live, seemed to be the most uncouth set of barbarians that I have yet encountered. Some questions that I asked as to my road were answered by a huge broad-shouldered fellow, about six feet in height, with on air half-idiotic, half insolent, and in a style that left me just as wise as I had been before. Something I heard about"following the fence,"
and as there really was now no road at all, not so much as a dray track, I determined upon"following the fence,"
and did so. At the corner I saw a few dray tracks, and following them, I left behind me those samples of bush civility that grace our squatting stations now-a-days. Across rotten granite ranges and swampy gullies for about three miles, until the dray tracks, which had one by one turned off on one side or the other, as the drivers, knowing the country, sought an independent road for themselves, now dwindled down to one; and I began to be somewhat apprehensive that I had missed my way; but at last on crossing a low range and looking round me I saw the very pleasing sight of a well-defined road stretching along the foot of the hill on which I stood. Quickly making my way to this, I passed along the side of a beautifully grassed valley for a mile, then across a nasty wet flat, with about a foot of water on it, to a low stoney range covered with the beautiful bright blue-green leaved gum: crossing this and another short spur I came upon the site of one of those extraordinary phenomena of the bush -- a windrow. In a straight line down one ridge that bordered the valley on one side, and up the opposing ridge that hemmed it in on the other, every tree had been thrown down to a width of about five-and-twenty rods. These giant denizens of the forest, for they were all trees of the largest size, lay uprooted, their heads all in one direction, down hill on the one side and up hill on the other, not only torn up, but in some cases the roots were removed ten or a dozen feet from the hole from which they had been wrenched by the fierce power of the wind. On the edges of this cleared line, the trees that had caught only a portion of the violence of the blast were turned and contorted in the most extraordinary manner. In some cases their vast trunks were twisted round, in others bent double, whilst many had their tops wrenched off as one would screw the green leaves off a carrot. The place of the ancient monarchs of the wood was now occupied by young saplings, of some three or four years' growth, green and fresh, shooting up into vigorous life the more readily from the devastation around. I examined many of the uprooted trees, and though some of the smaller boughs were decayed, yet the trunks and all the larger limbs were sound, and I should say from this as well as from the age of the surrounding saplings that scarcely ten years could have passed since the occurrence of the phenomenon. On making enquiry, however, I found that none residing in the vicinity remembered it; nay more, that not one of those I spoke to had even noticed the wreck further than to curse the fallen timber that occasionally forced him to make a detour with his team. About a mile from this spot, the road, after passing over low ridges of scrubby gum, comes down upon the broad plain that borders the Gwydir River, the plain, however, being converted by the recent rains into a black and dreary looking swamp. Stretching away as far as the eye could reach, covered here with green reeds, there with long rank waving grass, this plain had a most dreary appearance, especially when taken in conjunction with the high bald or sparsely timbered ranges that overhung it on either side, and with the hollow roar of the river, which, thick and muddy, ran with a swift current battling and brawling with the rocks and banks that here and there interposed an obstacle to its course. Across this uninviting waste there was no visible road, teamsters on such occasions, knowing the fording place, are in the habit of striking out a road for themselves, often making a large detour, to escape the old tracks which are always soft. Now as I did not happen to know the ford, and as I could see no road, or even track, ahead of me, I became considerably nonplussed. I went down to the river, but that was not at all inviting. It was bank high, and looked exceedingly vicious. I went down the stream, but no crossing-place could I find. I then turned and went up its course, but no; on and on for two miles, through mud, and slough, and water, but no spot appeared that warranted me in risking my safety by endeavouring to cross. However, I knew that I was going in the right direction, and to get a better chance of looking round, I left my mare to feed whilst I mounted one of the hills that bordered the river. I had got but half way up when I saw a very clear track, dipping down the siding of the ridge, a little above me. Only a short time sufficed to put myself and nag on this road, and about three miles' travelling along it brought me to a station, when I learnt that I was on the track to Oban, though off the direct road, which had, as I imagined, crossed the liver, and lay up the other side of the valley. Here I was shewn a ford, over which my mare got by a series of short jumps, the water being too deep to walk, and not deep enough to swim in, Crossing a short ridge, another long, dreary, swampy flat occurs, a vast plain of grass and water intimately commingled. Getting over this I came to a small gentle rise, with ground as swampy as on the flat below, the other side disclosing a similar picture of wet and misery to that on which I had turned my back. This short ridge, I was told, is one of the dividing points of the coast range; the water on the side I had left running down into the Gwydir to join the great internal stream, the Murray, and on the side I came to, falling by sinuous courses into Nimbi Creek, a stream that joins the Clarence some ten miles above Grafton. It was now nearly sundown; my mare had been slopping and puddling through mud and water all day long, and was now nearly dead beat, hanging her head and drooping her ears -- a perfect picture of misery. It was no use tramping through such a slough in the dark, so I began seriously to think upon looking out for six feet of dry ground to camp upon, though where it was to be found rather puzzled me, but whilst casting my eyes round for an inviting elevation, a thin blue curl rising amongst the low timber in the distance at once sent a thrill of joy to my heart. There was smoke, and where there was smoke there was fire, and no one could possibly make a fire in such a morass as this, unless under a roof. This was my train of reasoning, so caring nothing about road or track, I made a straight line for the smoke, cut across a stiff range, and came upon a most cheerful looking homestead, that had been hidden from me by the hill I had just passed over. Here I was made welcome for the night, the welcome becoming still more hearty when my errand was made known. My host, whose name was Hetheronton, gave me his history, from which it appeared that he had arrived in the colony only some 12 years back; that he had commenced life there as a shepherd; and that through steadiness and perseverance he was now the holder of a fine station, and the possessor of numerous flocks and herds, backed up with a comfortable sum in the bank. Leaving here, for a distance of seven miles, to Coventry’s station of Oban, the road alternately crosses swampy flats and short low granite ridges exceedingly rotten and boggy, making travelling excessively difficult. Oban is a fine station, well sheltered by lofty granite peaks, which surround it on three sides; and with a very large extent of cultivation ground. Wheat, oats, and barley grow here of the finest quality, and in such profusion as almost to cumber the ground. The cultivation paddocks however during my visit were exceedingly wet, and so boggy as to be all but impassable. Mr. Coventry, a warm-hearted Scotchman, whose house is always open to the passer-by, particularly if he be a digger, whom he calls the saviour of the country, would not permit me to pass without entering his house. I found him a very intelligent person, and gathered from him some valuable information respecting the New England District. From this station the track passes alternately over fine granite ridges, with huge piles of that stone heaped up here and there by the way, and over swampy hollows, until, at a distance of about a mile, it suddenly comes, without any previous ascent having been perceptible, upon a steep descent, leading into a dark, damp, rocky ravine, male still more gloomy by the black trunks and heavy foliage of the stringybark, which suddenly takes the place of the grey gum of the tableland above. The huge hill that rose to the left of this ravine was a magnificent sight to look upon. Rising almost precipitously, its sides were rugged with enormous blocks of granite, huddled one upon the other in the most colossal grandeur, and reminding one of the old classic fable of the attempt by the giants to scale heaven. On the opposite side of this peak to that by which I passed, the Oban Creek falls down a perpendicular wall of rock 200 feet in height, forming, with the wild and rocky scenery that accompanies it, an exceedingly imposing sight. About a mile beyond this again is another extraordinary looking granite peak to the right of the road. That part facing the roadway is bluff and precipitous, whilst all the way down to the track the earth is covered by huge boulders, of from 20 to 50 feet in height, cast down from the mass above. One magnificent rock, fully 60 feet high, lies down a distance of fully 200 yards from the base of the peak. On the range on the opposite side of the small creek that winds round the base of the peak, there is a corresponding break in the face of the hill, with similar indications of some violent convulsion of nature, leading me, as I looked upon the two, to the conclusion that at one time these two mountains had been joined by an intervening ridge, and that, at first separated by some internal throe of mother earth, the distance had been made still wider by the rains and floods that for ages past have been struggling for a freer passage through them. Another half mile of flat swamp brought me again upon the Oban Creek, and here the first party of diggers met my view. Through a thick stringybark and bastard box forest, which shoots up between low peaked granite ridges, the track, after crossing the creek, proceeds for some distance, until it comes upon an open space of ground, gently descending to the creek; and there I found the inn, and the great bulk of the Oban diggers' residences.