Steady pace ... Reynella riders among wildflowers in the Kosciuszko National Park.
Mountain men walk differently;they swagger,with their thumbs pressed into their pockets. With feet planted apart,duck-like,they pull the saddles from their mounts and hammer out their horseshoes with straight backs and elbows tucked in,a posture as natural as breathing.
I'm just outside Adaminaby with the riders of Reynella,ready to gallop into the wild valleys of the Kosciuszko National Park and camp under the stars. Leading us on this adventure is John Rudd,Kevin's cousin,a sheep and cattle farmer who has been taking guests on rides through Kosciuszko for 38 years.
Rudd has a quiet assuredness to him and the weathered skin of a life lived outdoors. As our group of seven heads into the hills,we are accompanied by three Reynella riders to guide us along the trail. As we assemble on the edge of Kosciuszko,we try to squirm into borrowed chaps and riding helmets,while Rudd and his long-time saddle partner,Conrad Maphias,disappear into the scrub to round up the horses.
There's a chill in the mountain air as we wait for them. I'm a little excited,a little apprehensive – apart from novelty afternoon camel rides in the deserts of India,my riding experience is,ahem,limited. Minutes later,Rudd and Maphias walk back into the open. Rudd walks towards the gate and closes it,muttering:"Here they come."
And on cue,a mob of black,grey and chestnut horses gallops through the gully towards us,raising a cloud of dust,nostrils flaring. They circle us,snorting.
I've been told that horses often choose their riders. Rudd and Maphias note my trepidation about being the last kid picked for the team and make the decision for me,choosing a stout little horse called Oscar. We'll do this in true bushman style,Rudd says."We'll eat when we're hungry and sleep when we're tired."I slip in at the back of the group with my instructor,Lesley,a Canadian with a soft drawl and a big black hat. He tells me to keep my heels pointed down and to clench my upper thighs against the saddle if I want Oscar to speed up. I'm more than happy to trot and begin to realise how hard it is to sit in a saddle.
As we plough through a creek,I tuck my elbows in,concentrate on my feet and try to ignore my legs as they gradually go numb. Only occasionally do I look up from Oscar's twitching ears towards the valleys of alpine scrub and the streaks of snow still lingering on the hills. As the sun peaks in the sky,we switchback through the dense bush,swerving around the limbs of white-barked snow gums on Gang Gang Mountain.
The isolation is broken only by a far-off vapour trail. We catch glimpses of mountains on the horizon,ringed by the hollowed corpses of trees burnt during the 2003 fires that tore through the national park. I get snagged on branches a few times as we level out on the clearing at Gavel's Ridge and stop for a well-earned rest. Chatting over a lunch of gourmet sandwiches and fruit cake,I'm told of the wild brumbies that run in the national park in their thousands. Rudd estimates there are at least 2000 wild horses still tearing through the mountain valleys.