PART I
High Country Misadventure
Russell Hill and Carol Clay
Chapter 1: A Clandestine Trip
On March 19, 2020, at around 7 a.m., 74-year-old Russell Hill left his house in Drouin, Victoria, Australia, and drove thirty minutes to pick up his 73-year-old friend, Carol Clay, from her house in Pakenham. The two were embarking on a camping trip in the Wonnangatta Valley, around 120 miles to the north-east of the state, with plans to visit various campsites along the Dargo River.
Russell’s 2017 70-series Toyota LandCruiser 4WD was the perfect vehicle for the expedition, capable of navigating the roughest terrain. Four-wheel drive enthusiasts considered the LandCruiser a premium off-road vehicle—the sort of car that, when mates dropped by for a beer, they would inevitably end up gathered around the truck, admiring Russell’s meticulous setup while they shared a few cold ones.
Though still relatively fit for his age, Russell moved more deliberately these days and showed some signs of old age, including only nine of his own teeth left. His friends knew him as private and measured in speech, yet capable of playful mischief, though “never in a vicious or vindictive way,” they were quick to point out.
The transition to retirement hadn’t been easy—”fucked him up”, as he’d told fellow campers. Usually, he kept his thoughts to himself, but he had expressed his frustration to a few of his close circle of friends. They had suggested activities like panning for gold, or joining a Men’s Shed, but Russell had no success with the former and no interest in the latter.
This would be Russell’s third trip to the area in a month. He had gone camping alone just a week before at the King Billy No. 2 campground in the Alpine National Park. The trip surprised his friends—a six-hour round trip seemed excessive for one night’s stay. His being alone did not surprise them. Everyone who knew Russell described him as a quiet man, fiercely protective of his privacy. He wasn’t prone to idle gossip and some even called him secretive. “Since Russell retired from truck driving, he would go camping by himself,” said one mate, “or so we thought.”
Carol Clay was a former president of the Country Women’s Association (CWA). She was so well-known for her baking that she was in high demand for lessons and demonstrations, sharing her secrets of perfect shortcrust, delicate filo pastry, or a show-stopping Christmas cake. She spearheaded a diverse range of programs, determined to dispel the notion that the CWA was solely the domain of elderly ladies occupied with knitting and baking. Carol actively sought to recruit younger members, telling the Pakenham Gazette on the CWA’s 85th anniversary that the Association was “a modern organization of women looking out for women.” Her tenure as president saw her rubbing shoulders with dignitaries at Government House, traversing Australia and the South Pacific for conferences, and holding positions on the boards of several high-profile organizations. Carol was a powerhouse.
In 2018, Carol’s tireless efforts were recognized when she was inducted as a Member of Honor of the Country Women’s Association. She was the kind of woman who could expertly teach you to craft homemade jams, pickles, and pesto from your garden’s summer bounty, and the next day curate an exhibition showcasing members’ artworks for National Science Week.
“We are always connected with tea and scones, so to be associated with a science project is quite exciting,” Carol told a reporter from The Age, one of Victoria’s major newspapers. If she had committed to a task, she would stay up to the wee hours of the morning making sure that last cake was cooked or pudding soaked. If a friend was sick, Carol would be there every day, dropping off hearty cooked dinners until they got better.
Carol’s influence extended far beyond the CWA. She volunteered with hospital auxiliaries and the Red Cross and sat on various committees. Always impeccably presented—”a glamour queen,” as one friend put it—Carol was never seen without her signature red lipstick, stylish steel-grey hair and pearl earrings. Though her children had grown and had families of their own, she remained actively involved in their lives, doting on her grandchildren from her newly downsized house near the shops and train station.
Russell and Carol had spent several holidays together with their respective spouses. This trip, however, was a clandestine one. Russell had told Robyn that he was going camping alone. Carol, who by now had been single for several years, told friends that she was going away for a few days, without specifying where, but said that there would be no mobile phone coverage. The only person she confided in was her sister, Jill. The septuagenarians were sneaking away like a couple of teenagers.
The seeds of Russell and Carol’s affair had been planted decades earlier. She was the oldest of four girls, and he had been her first boyfriend as a teenager. Both had married other people—Russell and his wife, Robyn, had even attended Carol’s first wedding.
Their rekindled romance began with a lie. When first introducing Carol to Robyn, Russell claimed she was his cousin—a ruse Robyn believed for years. It wasn’t until the early 2000s, during joint camping trips with Carol and her then-husband Lynton, that Robyn noticed how Russell and Carol would frequently break away from the group for private walks. Though uneasy, she pushed her doubts aside, wanting to believe her husband’s fidelity.
The deception unraveled when a neighbor, witnessing Carol’s visits whenever Robyn was away, confronted Russell: confess to Robyn or she would expose the affair herself. Backed into a corner, Russell admitted everything to Robyn and their daughters, swearing to end the relationship and repair his marriage.
But Russell’s promises were hollow. While Robyn believed he had broken things off with Carol, Russell simply became more careful. His “solo” camping trips—ostensibly to meet amateur radio friends—provided perfect cover for their continued liaisons. He maintained the facade with a separate “burner” phone registered in Carol’s name, ensuring no suspicious bills would reach home. His family remained oblivious that the affair they believed long dead was still very much alive, playing out in the wilderness during Russell’s “solitary” excursions.
The arrangement suited Russell better than Carol. When they discussed leaving their spouses, Carol took the decisive step and divorced Lynton. Russell, however, retreated, citing his wife’s ill-health and desire to keep his family intact. Despite this setback, their relationship endured, with the bush providing their only reliable sanctuary.
Few who knew the glamorous Carol would have imagined her camping at all. Her daughter Emma explained, “She wouldn’t describe herself as a camper, she’s not a camper, but she appreciated the outdoors.”
However the trips meant time with Russell, so Carol became a camper. While he kept it a secret from nearly everyone, she confided in a few close friends and family about the affair. For Carol’s daughter Emma it was an awkward topic of conversation, but Carol assured Emma that it was a very caring and very loving relationship. Carol’s friend Louise, who was non-judgmental and not prone to gossip, thought that overall, Carol seemed content with the arrangement, which allowed her to have her own independence as well as a boyfriend. Carol would show Louise pictures on her phone of the places they had been and walks they had taken. However, Louise had never met Russell and did not know what he looked like.
Their routine of private getaways was broken only once, when Russell suggested meeting his friend Jim Francis in January 2019. Jim was travelling Australia in his caravan when Russell called, warning that he’d be bringing a woman who wasn’t his wife. Though surprised, Jim didn’t pry. They camped together at Timbarra in Gippsland for two weeks, followed by trips to the Ada River and Murray River. To Jim, they seemed like any other couple, freely sharing their history around the campfire.
A month before their Wonnangatta expedition, Russell and Carol had camped at Pike’s Flat in Victoria’s High Country for a Valentine’s Day assignation. Their peaceful getaway was interrupted by a run-in with another camper. Scott McDonald, a participant in the grueling “Oscars Hut2Hut” challenge—a 100-kilometre race between the area’s historic huts—arrived at Pike’s Flat to find an unoccupied but well-established campsite. There was already a tent set up with neatly arranged comfort and cooking facilities showing the hallmarks of experienced campers. There was even a separate toilet tent, despite the campground having a drop toilet. The campers were nowhere to be seen, and assuming the absent campers were fellow racers, Scott set up nearby.
Upon Russell and Carol’s return from a day drive to Indarri Falls, Russell curtly demanded to know why Scott had set up so close, when there was so much space available. His tone left no doubt that he considered this a breach of bush camping etiquette, which decreed that new arrivals set up with as much distance as practical between themselves and the campers who are already there. When Scott explained the identity mix-up, and offered to move his camp further away, Russell calmed down, and even became jovial.
*
On the Thursday morning of the trip to Wonnangatta, Robyn helped Russell pack his bags, including his cans of Cougar bourbon and coke, and a bottle of Bundaberg Rum, and waved him off on what she thought was a solo camping trip.
Meanwhile, Carol cleaned the house, preparing for her absence. She arranged for her neighbors to water her plants, casually mentioning she’d be back by March 29. On the morning, early rising neighbors saw Russell putting Carol’s bags in the boot of his car. Carol was carrying a pink floral overnight bag with her and a clear plastic bag holding three large lever-arch folders full of CWA materials. Then the couple set off together, heading for Victoria’s High Country.
While awaiting Russell’s arrival, Carol had attended to one final, crucial task. In the bathroom, she carefully peeled a sticky label from a small bottle, tearing it into minuscule pieces before disposing of them in the bin. It wouldn’t do to have anyone inadvertently come across Russell’s Viagra prescription.
Chapter 2: Setting Up Camp
The trip to the Wonnangatta Valley, with its panoramic views and challenging 4WD tracks, is considered one of the iconic drives in the Victorian High Country. The LandCruiser wound its way through Licola, a small town on the banks of the Macalister River, before Russell and Carol faced the more challenging tracks—paths accessible only to the most capable all-terrain vehicles.
Carol made two final calls before they lost mobile coverage. First to her friend Louise about a CWA board application, though the call cut out after minutes as they hit the first dead spot. Then a quick ring to the CWA head office in Toorak, leaving word she’d be unreachable for several days. Soon after, they lost phone signal completely as they headed towards one of a small group of sites on Dry River, known colloquially as “Bucks Camp”.
This was Russell’s territory. As a retired forestry worker, he’d helped build many of these tracks, including the notoriously tricky Zeka Spur Track. Though recently graded and unusually easy to traverse, these roads held decades of memories.
Despite the remoteness of the location, their journey didn’t go unnoticed. Environmental researchers Daniel Stossel and Michael Nicol exchanged waves with Carol as they passed. Robbie Williams, a weed sprayer working trackside, studied the “pretty snazzied up” LandCruiser with admiration—though its driver, a “grumpy old bugger”, roared past without the customary friendly chat.
Robbie had reason to be wary of strangers in the valley. Just days earlier, he’d encountered what he described as a “creepy fella” dressed in a singlet, shorts and gaiters. The man had pulled up in a 4WD hauling a trailer, his clothes dark with sweat—concerning enough in those early days of COVID to make Robbie step back. The man asked about camping spots, prompting Robbie and his fellow sprayers to joke darkly about his resemblance to Ivan Milat. Later, Robbie spotted the same vehicle at Bucks Camp, reversed deep into the bushes with only its bull bar visible, as though its owner wished to remain hidden.
Further on, campers Damir Jovar and Goran Miljkovic grumbled about the slow pace as they became trapped behind Russell and Carol, even attempting an off-road overtake before the LandCruiser finally turned into Bucks Camp. Despite their annoyance, they did notice how nice the car with its custom-made canopy was and remarked on it to each other.
The open valley offered perfect conditions for Russell’s latest hobby. His new Mavic drone, which he called “Fred”, waited in its case, ready for practice flights. It was a sophisticated and expensive piece of equipment for a beginner, requiring careful control through a smartphone interface. The purchase surprised some of his friends, because Russell wasn’t usually the type for high-tech gadgets.
The LandCruiser pulled in just left of the campground entrance. There was one other campsite already set up in the prime spot next to the river entrance, so Russel and Carol had to make do with a less desirable spot inland.
Russell’s setup was a masterpiece of organization housed within the custom-made canopy. Everything had its place, from the Engel fridge on its slide-out to Carol’s designated storage space, which she dared not disrupt. Not one to rely on phone apps, he carried paper maps in his car, including hunting zone charts that marked permitted seasons and weapons across the alpine region.
A custom add-on feature of the LandCruiser revealed Russell’s true passion—amateur radio. PVC pipes ran along the canopy’s underside, curving to the roof, their joints secured with gaffer tape. These housed the antenna wires essential for his nightly radio sessions. Every evening at 6 p.m., Russell would join his tight-knit group of fellow enthusiasts on frequency 3.675 for their half-hour “net”—a ritual that was not only social, but a form of safety check for those who were beyond mobile phone range. Ham radio was more than just a simple hobby for Russell; he had to sit for five different examinations to obtain the license that allowed him to operate across HF channels.
His setup was meticulous: a home radio complemented by the portable unit in his car’s console, powered by its own dedicated battery. Known as the ‘antenna guy’ among his radio mates, Russell had perfected the art of stringing wires through the highest branches, using weighted lines to achieve the ideal 10–20 meter elevation for crystal-clear transmission.
The couple’s camping style reflected their personalities. Russell insisted on top-of-the-range gear—a Black Wolf turbo tent, Engel fridge/freezer, comfortable chairs and a proper table. No basic sleeping bags for them; instead, a proper bed dressed with a blue duvet. Carol drew the line at using the “drop dunny”, where a resident huntsman spider could jump out at any inopportune moment, so Russell also set up a toilet tent a few feet away, secured to the bull bar to protect against any sudden gusts of wind.
They fell into traditional roles: Carol managed the camp kitchen, excelling at meal preparation, while Russell collected firewood, maintained the solar setup and secured the site. While he fussed with his radio antenna, Carol could usually be found reading, content in their shared solitude.
Their choice of Bucks Camp held deeper significance. Nearby stood “Hilly’s Camp”, marked by a white cross commemorating Russell’s cousin, Gary Hill. Twenty-five years earlier, Gary had died instantly when his nephew mistook him for a deer, firing a fatal shot from his .35-calibre rifle. Though ruled accidental—the nephew blamed ‘buck fever’, a hunter’s rash impulse to shoot—the incident left its mark. The memorial plaque carried a stark warning: Not every stag under a rub tree is a deer.
The tragedy shaped Russell’s views on firearms. He’d surrendered his inherited shotgun during a gun amnesty and never owned another. Yet this respect for gun safety didn’t extend to other regulations. He brazenly ignored prohibitions on cutting snow gum for firewood, dismissing other campers’ warnings with a curt, “I don’t give a fuck”. Even his beloved drone violated park rules, flying without permits. Russell camped by his own code.
That evening, Russell missed the regular 6 p.m. net, still setting up camp. By 8 a.m. the next morning, Friday 20 March, he made an unusual extra call to his friend George Kozlowski. The conversation was unremarkable—merely mentioning plans to explore Dargo River campsites before heading home. Later that morning, Goran and Damir were dealing with a tire pressure issue when they spotted the couple walking near their camp. The campers exchanged waves before Goran and Damir departed for Sydney.
That afternoon, Robbie Williams watched Russell’s drone circling overhead, dipping close enough to acknowledge his wave before disappearing downstream. The mechanical buzz drew mixed reactions from campers—while drones could capture spectacular footage, many considered them an intrusion into the bush’s tranquility. “You’re going down there to have a peaceful camp and somebody’s flying a drone over top of you,” the weed sprayer later said.
At 6 p.m., Russell joined the evening net. Using his call sign VK3VZP, he reported radio troubles but sounded positive overall. He promised to call again tomorrow, careful not to mention Carol’s presence. Most of his friends were old-fashioned, and some knew Russell’s wife Robyn, and would not approve of the situation. Moreover, Robyn often listened in, though she never spoke, not having the required license.
His last conversation was with mate Rob Ashlin, discussing possible routes toward Dargo. Russell signed off at 6:40 p.m., sounding “happy as a pig in shit” in his favorite spot. Rob had no idea that Carol sat nearby, likely reading or preparing dinner, while she waited for Russell to pack away his radio gear for the night.
The picturesque Wonnangatta Valley, with its rolling hills and challenging hiking tracks, had drawn visitors for generations. Part of the Alpine National Park, it offered both natural beauty and seclusion, though its steep terrain and lack of phone coverage posed constant challenges. Not far from Bucks Camp stood another reminder of the valley’s isolation—the ruins of Wonnangatta Station, site of one of Australia’s most enduring murder mysteries.
One of many.
end of excerpt