The drive into the high country took just over an hour.
To Tristram, Pyran and Jase, the journey seemed surprisingly ordinary. Certainly, it was beautiful: there were winding roads through tall mountain ash forest. There were towering hills, and daunting gorges. There were the stony mountain streams and the gullies filled with tree ferns.
However, there were also the road signs, the small towns of Swifts Creek and Omeo, and Benambra. There were other vehicles. There was the well travelled, clearly lined bitumen road. There were rotting road-kill corpses: unlucky wombats and kangaroos.
The mystery of their child-hood camping trip evapourated as Ivan drove. Their destination was no longer a detached secret from the dreamtime memories of their past. It was on a map, with the roads connecti
