We weren't technically in the Outback, the big fried egg that sizzles in the middle of the continent, but we were skirting its crispy white edges. Our two lane highway took us out of South Australia and into Victoria, then briefly into New South Wales before cutting back into Victoria again. Things greened up a bit. Well, maybe they didn't green up but I guess it got a little less yellow.

We stopped for the night in Echuca, a clean, tidy little town. (In fact, every town we drove through all day was clean and tidy.) The town was set on the backs of the Murray river, and 150 years ago it harbored the largest inland steamboat fleet in the world. Boats brought goods up and down the river as far north as Queensland and as far south as the Pacific coast. It was a thriving town with saloons, brothels, frontier banks, and all the other stereotypes of an "old west" boomtown. What's amazing today is that although this era is long gone, Echuca has managed to preserve -- in beautiful condition -- many of the original buildings. These aren't cheesy, reconstructed facades, they are the real deal. The Port also houses an active fleet of restored steamships. Down on the river I saw an old man in overalls slowly working on a steamship with a hand plane. It struck me. This was Hannibal, Missouri. Mark Twain country, up close and personal. I expected to round a corner and see Tom Sawyer painting a white picket fence.

The next morning we rose early, bid goodbye to the snazzily-dressed guys who ran the hostel (and the tastefully decorated B&B next door), and drove further east. The endless plains we had been crossing finally ended in the foothills of the Snowy Mountains, the dividing range that separates the eastern coast of Australia from the big vast center of the country. We pulled into a small town for lunch.

Like most small towns, the choices were limited. Rather than a long row of burger joints on the edge of town, most small towns in Australia have 2 or 3 "take-away" places. Sort of like deli's or sandwich shops in America. The takeaway shops all serve the same things: meat pies, fish and chips, potato wedges with chili sauce and sour cream, burgers, sandwiches of meat and butter in white bread. Meat pies are everywhere in Australia and seem to be the food of choice for anytime; breakfast, lunch, dinner, or to nibble while watching a game of "footie" on the "tellie." They are like hot dogs are in America.

Sarah and I ordered a burger with "The Lot". A short while later it came, 8 inches tall. An engineering marvel. We were so amazed that we just sat and stared at it for a while. It was huge. I may have missed something, but here are the ingredients we cataloged: burger patty, bun, ketchup, mayo, pickled beet, slice of ham, slice of pineapple, lettuce, tomato, and, to top it all off, a fried egg.

After pecking away at the burger and the huge bowl of wedges that accompanied it (neither of which we finished), Sarah and I headed further into the mountains. They were larger than I expected. Real mountains. Large areas are protected by National Park, so much of our drive was through undeveloped forest. It was steep, tree-covered land and we had to stop frequently to look out at the nice views. At one point we saw two wild horses grazing on the scrubby trees. A few minutes later we reached Thredbo, Australia's largest ski area and our home for the next three days.

Thredbo wasn't a big ski area. Certainly not by Rocky Mountain standards. But it was actually larger than I expected for Australia. Even though we arrived in the dead of summer, I could easily imagine the slopes alive with skiers and borders. It was mostly intermediate terrain, but there were a few steep pitches as well. The slopes were bare now, though, and Sarah and I were here for the hiking, not the skiing. In fact, we didn't just hike, we scaled Australia's highest peak, Mount Kosciuszko.

Now, I haven't scaled too many "highest peaks." Sarah and I climbed Ben Nevis, the highest peak in Britain, and that's about it. But I have a feeling I could spend a lifetime climbing highest peaks and never find an easier highest peak to climb. Mount Kosciuszko must be the world's only almost-wheelchair-accessible highest summit on any continent. The climb starts with a ride on the high speed chairlift up to the top of Thredbo. From there it's just a 13 km stroll to the summit. Most of the trail isn't actually a trail, it's a raised wire grating that has been installed to protect the fragile alpine ecosystem from the throngs of hard core mountaineers (aka, septuagenarians, infants, quadriplegics). I didn't see John Krakuer bivouacked along the trail, but I'm sure a book about the climb is on the way.

The climb may not have been that challenging, but it was a nice walk. It was cold and cloudy, but through breaks in the weather we caught glimpses out over long broad valleys. The next day we took a few more hikes in the area. All were pleasant walks through the gum trees and scraggily bush that never lets you forget you are in Australia.

One of the first things I remember ever hearing about Australia was when I saw The Man From Snowy River as a young kid. I don't actually remember anything about the movie other than some cool guy rides a cool horse through cool Australian countryside. Now that we were here in the Snowy Mountains (we'd even hiked over a tributary to the Snowy River on our way to Mount Kosciuszko) I felt a visit here wouldn't be complete without going for a trail ride.

We found a ranch that offered rides and as we pulled up the driveway it looked exactly like what the movie would look like if I could remember it. Australian cowboys in Australian cowboy hats were moving the horses down out of the pasture into a coral. Red dust was kicked into the air. A few kangaroos even jumped through the trees in the background. The ride was gorgeous. It brought us up the hills through scattered trees to some fine viewpoints over the valley. We saw big kangaroos, loud birds, and although we didn't see any wombats we saw a lot of wombat dung. The wombats use their dung to assert dominance by placing their scat as high as possible, so you pass tidy little piles perched daintily on logs and rocks and tree stumps. Our guides were smiley and young and looked like Old West cowboys.