We left the mist and cold… to chase more mist and cold. Brilliant strategy, right? Woke up to yet another foggy morning (NSW weather really said: “Surprise! It’s fog again!”) and rolled down the Great Western Highway toward Camden. Pleasant drive, but I’m officially over wavy mountain roads. My stomach is starting to negotiate a union agreement.
Skirted around Penrith, cruised into Camden, realised it still felt like Big Town Energy, so we bailed and ducked down the back roads to Moss Vale. I’m really loving being off the main highways — fewer trucks, fewer brake‑check moments, more “ahhh this is nice” vibes.
Found a showground. Found mud. Found more mud. Decided we didn’t need that much nature. So we did an avero drive and ended up in Berrima — gorgeous little historic town — where Shelly sniffed out a riverside heritage walk. Two hours later we’d learned all about the WW1 internment camp for German nationals. Honestly, we should’ve been taught more at school… or I should’ve listened instead of drawing cars in the margins. The tenacity of those people was wild — they dammed the creek, held regattas, built clubs… basically turned confinement into a community festival.
Back at camp, launched the drone (still loving the new perspective), and watched a certain Maroon team get absolutely belted. Next year… maybe.
We pointed the Trailblazer toward Goulburn but somehow ended up in Cooma. Somewhere along the line we decided that 38 years between snow sightings was unacceptable. Last time was Queenstown — the place I proposed to my beautiful wife — so the nostalgia was already bubbling. A big dump of snow had hit a week earlier, so fingers crossed.
Cooma Tourist Park had a bit of road noise and YES, it was cold again. But bring it on. We ducked up to Gladstone Lookout to scope the area and — in the distance — SNOW. Actual snow. Excitement levels rising.
Back at camp we planned the next day, helped along by fellow campers who warned us it’d be freezing in the morning. So we cooked up a cunning plan: head to Jindabyne, then Thredbo, then maybe loop around Mt Kosciuszko. Easy.
Driving into Thredbo triggered a flood of memories from my last visit 40‑odd years ago with Peter Slater. Young blokes, too much testosterone, chalet parties, people skiing down internal stairs… absolute chaos. I skied too hard on day one, wrecked my ankle, and stayed five more days anyway. Pete stayed on to “handle the locals”. I also remember a bloke named Richard who randomly dropped in, gave me his leather jacket (since returned), and then disappeared off to WA. Wild times.
Best part of that whole trip? My last night in Brisbane — out on the town with my future wife and another lady friend. We were all Telecom work buddies (and no, not FWB). Still makes me smile. Anyway… I digress.
Next morning: below zero, foggy, perfect. We hit the Jindabyne Info Centre, got the plan sorted, and headed up the mountain. Thredbo was packed — no parking — so we kept going another 20 km until we found a spot for a walk.
Sandshoes. Denim jeans. A 30‑minute walk down a fire trail… in snow. Not our smartest moment, but we had an absolute blast. Snow squeaking underfoot, cheeks frozen, Shell and I had the biggest smiles, tried the old snowball fight and generally just loved being there.
Stopped at Khancoban for lunch and chatted to the locals — thank goodness — because the road we were planning to take home is CLOSED in winter. Black ice. Lots of it. That would’ve been… memorable, but not in a good way.
The loop around the mountain was unreal — every 20 minutes the world changed. One moment we were in high alpine country, then suddenly rolling through eerie dead snow‑gum forests from the 2019 fires, then back into pockets of living snow gums, then lush green farmland, lakes, and even stretches of hydro‑country. It felt like someone kept switching the scenery channel — so many inputs, so much contrast, all in one drive.
Six hours of exploring later, we were both happy to get off those windy mountain roads. The Trailblazer got a workout in 4WD — some sections were definitely “hairy”, or should I say slippery — but she handled it like a champ.
Next day’s plan: get off the mountain and head back to the coast. Bega was the target. And if I thought I was done with scary mountain roads… absolutely not. But that’s for the next post
