Six Hours for Ninety Minutes

The morning presented a cartographer's choice—two paths beckoning northward, each with its own particular promise. Anth studied the digital map, weighing options with the careful consideration of a solitary traveller for whom time had become both abundant and precious. The first route would retrace familiar backcountry roads, scenic certainly but already yielding their hidden geocaching treasures during his previous southward journey. The second option—the Midland Highway connecting Hobart to Launceston—represented the well-worn arterial spine of Tasmania, a path we had traversed numerous times in our nomadic existence but always with the single-minded purpose of reaching predetermined destinations.

Today, however, with solitude as companion and time as currency, the highway revealed itself in a different light: a string of undiscovered geocaching pearls awaiting collection. The decision crystallised with quiet certainty—the allure of unmapped discoveries overpowering the charm of familiar landscapes. Before surrendering completely to the highway's structured embrace, Anth allowed himself several preparatory detours, the bus winding along narrow farming lanes as he claimed a handful of caches that served as appetisers for the day's treasure hunting feast.

The Midland Highway eventually received our bus with the familiarity of an old acquaintance. Unlike our previous journeys together when this road represented merely a conduit between destinations, today it transformed into the destination itself. With geocaching coordinates loaded into the navigation system, Anth established a new rhythm to travel—a delightful staccato of driving punctuated by frequent stops, each one an invitation to discover something previously hidden from our collective awareness.

The historic town of Oatlands emerged on the horizon, its Georgian architecture standing in sandstone defiance of modernity's relentless march. Where previously we had merely glanced through windows while passing, today Anth wandered its streets with purposeful curiosity, following digital breadcrumbs to tucked-away corners and overlooked historical markers. Similarly, the township of Ross—that perfect colonial postcard we had admired but never properly explored—revealed deeper layers of its character, including the forgotten quarry where skilled hands had hewn the very sandstone blocks that gave the settlement its distinctive golden hue.

Every few kilometres presented fresh opportunity, the bus pulling onto gravel shoulders or into deserted parking areas as Anth pursued the next coordinate. Tasmania's convict heritage—so often referenced yet rarely experienced in depth—revealed itself through crumbling ruins and weathered structures that punctuated the landscape like mnemonic devices, each one encoding stories of hardship, discipline and colonial ambition. These sites, bypassed during our efficient journeys together, now offered their historical whispers to the solitary explorer.

What should have been a straightforward journey of one hour and forty minutes transformed into a magnificent odyssey spanning nearly six hours. The sun had begun its westward descent when our bus finally rolled into the familiar embrace of Honeysuckle Banks, that reliable sanctuary on Launceston's edge that had sheltered us during previous transitions. Unlike our previous visits, the free campsite bustled with fellow travellers, a testament to autumn's gentle appeal. Nevertheless, that particular spot which had somehow always awaited our arrival remained vacant—a small cosmic kindness that felt like geographical recognition of our returning presence.

Morning brought purpose as Anth crossed the bridge into Evandale village, its preserved colonial atmosphere always transporting visitors to a gentler era. The Post Office—that stalwart institution housing surprising efficiency within its historic walls—yielded a small but significant parcel: a high-speed turbo fan that promised to mitigate the perpetual dust that infiltrated our home whenever we ventured along Tasmania's abundant dirt roads. This modest acquisition represented another incremental improvement to our nomadic existence, another small refinement of comfort earned through experience.

The final components for the cab shelving project awaited at Bunnings, that cathedral of DIY possibility that has become a recurring character in our mobile renovation story. With materials secured, Anth transformed the mundane asphalt of the car park into an impromptu workshop, measuring and fitting the final pieces that would complete this small architectural marvel within our nomadic dwelling. The satisfaction of creation—of fashioning order from material and concept—provided a quiet counterpoint to Sal's absence, a tangible accomplishment to share upon reunion. With the shelves completed, our bus returned to Honeysuckle Banks, now improved in both function and form.

Dawn's early darkness blanketed the landscape as Anth prepared for his Melbourne flight. The initial ambition to run the five kilometres to the airport surrendered to pragmatism in the pre-dawn blackness, an Uber summoned instead to navigate the sleeping streets. This trip represented not just geographical movement but financial sustenance—the clinical trial's conclusion promising the lifeblood currency that would fuel our continued wanderings for months to come. Beyond immediate needs, these funds would contribute toward our planned New Zealand adventure, that special celebration of Sal's birthday we had been anticipating since conception.

The Melbourne interlude passed without incident, its business efficiently concluded before our bus's guardian returned to Launceston's airport that same afternoon. Despite the earlier concession to vehicular transport, Anth embraced the return journey on foot—not running as originally imagined, the afternoon heat and absence of water suggesting a more measured pace. The pedestrian perspective offered a different appreciation of landscape, the gradual unfolding of scenery and settlement that hurried transport always obscures.

Honeysuckle Banks had performed its customary social alchemy during his absence—some campers departed, others arrived, the constant gentle flux that characterises these temporary communities. Among the newcomers, a Toyota Coaster caught Anth's attention—a mechanical sibling to our own beloved bus. The magnetic pull of shared experience drew him into conversation with its owners, a couple whose years on the road had started in Western Australia and accumulated into a treasure trove of stories. Their tales of distant landscapes and unexpected adventures flowed freely in the golden afternoon light, a reminder of the particular camaraderie that exists between those who have chosen wheels as home.

As darkness settled over the campsite, Anth retired to the quiet interior of our bus, tomorrow's plans already taking shape. The journey would continue northward to rendezvous with Terry, where our mobile home would rest for nearly three weeks while its caretaker embarked on the next clinical trial—another temporary separation from both Sal and bus that served the greater purpose of sustaining our chosen lifestyle. For now, however, the completed shelves stood as silent testament to productive solitude, awaiting Sal's eventual return and approval.Baca lagi