Dusty Detours and Chance Connections

The Highland Highway beckoned us southward once more, but our yearning for novelty—that ever-present companion of the nomadic soul—guided us toward uncharted territory. Anth had identified an unsealed road winding down from Lake Sorell, promising both unexplored landscape and the thrill of undiscovered geocaches. Since time stood as our willing accomplice rather than demanding taskmaster, we veered onto this dusty alternative, our bus responding to the textured terrain with familiar mechanical conversation beneath us.

The detour carried us through a corner of Tasmania we had somehow missed despite our year-long exploration—a stunning oversight now gloriously remedied. Eucalyptus forest gave way to rolling pastureland, then back to pockets of native vegetation, each transition revealing another facet of the island's complex ecological mosaic. Anth's occasional declarations of "There should be one nearby" punctuated our journey, the bus easing to a halt as he ventured forth to uncover those hidden treasures that had become such an integral subplot in our travelling narrative. Each successful discovery brought that particular satisfaction of completion—another coordinate conquered, another minor mystery solved.

Eventually the rutted path delivered us to Bothwell, a township whose colonial architecture spoke eloquently of Tasmania's European genesis. A modest café with windows fogged from freshly brewed coffee invited us in from the autumn chill. Outside, a magnificent 1965 Ford Mustang commanded attention—its gleaming paintwork and immaculate chrome reflecting both sunshine and bygone automotive excellence. On a chair, we discovered its owner similarly enjoying morning refreshment, the quiet pride in his occasional glance toward his mechanical companion quite evident. Our coffees arrived with the unhurried pace that characterises rural service, allowing us time to absorb the particular atmosphere that exists only in country establishments where time flows according to different rules than urban counterparts.

Departing Bothwell with caffeine-renewed spirits, we continued our southward trajectory. The plan crystallised around returning to Kempton—that free camp with generous electrical provision we had sampled days earlier. Our power reserves, depleted by wilderness dwelling at Penstock, could benefit from municipal generosity before we potentially ventured on to Chauncy Vale. This formulaic strategy dissolved upon arrival, however, as Kempton's modest camping area had transformed from near-emptiness to vibrant community, every designated space claimed by fellow travellers.

One unoccupied spot bore the universal signal of temporary absence—chairs and table arranged to indicate imminent return rather than availability. Adjacent to this reservation stood a well-appointed Sprinter van, its occupants lounging comfortably in the autumn sunshine. Approaching with nomadic diplomacy, we explained our simple desire for electrical connection rather than overnight accommodation. Belinda and Coz—the van's Western Australian owners—responded with immediate generosity, explaining that the reserved space belonged to their travelling companions who would not object to our temporary power requisition.

"Stay as long as you need," Belinda offered with the easy camaraderie that exists between road people. "They won't be back for hours yet."

As our batteries drank deeply from the available outlet, conversation flowed with equivalent ease. Their journey—that classic Australian pilgrimage known simply as "the big lap"—had begun in Western Australia months earlier. We exchanged tales of favourite locations, challenging roads, mechanical mishaps and serendipitous discoveries, each anecdote strengthening the invisible thread that connects those who have chosen wheels as home. Their perspective on their journey from the West provided fresh insight, while our Tasmanian expertise offered valuable intelligence for their island exploration.

As afternoon mellowed toward evening and our conversation deepened, we reassessed our original intention to proceed to Chauncy Vale. If Kempton—typically quiet and overlooked—had swelled to capacity, what might await at more popular destinations during this school holiday period? The wisdom of remaining in our current, now-comfortable situation became increasingly apparent. When Belinda and Coz's companions returned and expressed similar welcoming attitude, our decision crystallised—we would remain within this temporary community rather than seeking uncertain solitude elsewhere.

The contrast with Penstock's magnificent isolation could not have been more pronounced—from wilderness solitude to social congregation in a single day's journey. Yet this juxtaposition represented the beautiful duality of our chosen lifestyle: the liberty to embrace either extreme as circumstance and inclination dictated. With our food supplies reaching critical levels, we surrendered to the limited options of rural Sunday commerce, the local service station providing basic sustenance rather than culinary delight. The simplicity of takeaway eaten within our bus reminded us that not every meal requires celebration—sometimes food serves merely as necessary fuel between more memorable experiences.

Dawn arrived with the subtle shift in light that penetrates even the most efficient window coverings. We emerged to find the campground already stirring, fellow travellers preparing for their own days of discovery. Our farewell to Belinda and Coz carried the particular poignancy of nomadic connections—friendships formed intensely yet briefly, contact details exchanged with genuine intentions of future reconnection when our western migration eventually brought us to their home territory. These promises, uttered with sincerity despite uncertain timelines, represented the particular social fabric of life on wheels—relationships woven across vast distances, maintained through digital communication, occasionally reinforced through serendipitous physical reconnection.

With our goodbyes completed and our home secured for movement, we pointed our wheels toward Hobart for the final time. Sal's impending flight hung between us—not quite melancholy but carrying the awareness of imminent separation. As the highway unwound beneath us, conversation turned naturally toward logistics and timing, the practical considerations that would carry us through the coming transition. Tasmania's landscape—now deeply familiar after twelve months of exploration—scrolled past our windows like a beloved film we had watched countless times yet still discovered new details with each viewing. This journey represented not merely movement toward an airport but the beginning of our farewell to an island that had transformed from destination to sanctuary over the course of a remarkable year.Read more