Change of Course: The Boys

The coastal road we had been following northward suddenly lost its magnetism as we turned our wheels westward from St Helens, leaving behind the sapphire waters and flame-coloured rocks that had defined our recent days. This deviation from our coastal farewell tour came with purpose and anticipation—knowing that soon Torrin and Shea would join our nomadic existence for a precious interlude. The prospect of sharing our beloved Tasmania through fresh eyes infused our journey with renewed excitement, transforming what had been a gradual island departure into something altogether richer.

Our chosen route carved through state forest—a familiar path we had traversed over a year earlier when Evercreech's magnificent white gums had provided sanctuary during what now felt like another lifetime of our Tasmanian sojourn. The landscape shifted dramatically as we progressed inland, coastal heath giving way to increasingly dense eucalyptus forest, the air carrying that distinctive menthol fragrance that permeates Tasmania's wilderness areas. The road narrowed, its surface deteriorating from smooth tarmac to increasingly rugged gravel as we penetrated deeper into forest territory.

Navigation through Tasmania's complex network of forestry trails demands constant vigilance, a lesson reinforced when we realised we had sailed past a crucial turn-off. The digital map spread before us offered alternative solutions, and we plotted a circuitous route that would eventually reconnect with our intended path. This impromptu detour initially seemed fortuitous—these unplanned diversions often revealing unexpected treasures—until nature intervened with dramatic finality. Around a bend appeared a massive eucalyptus, its enormous trunk stretched across our path like a fallen sentinel. While a conventional vehicle might have limbo-danced beneath its elevated sections, our bus's considerable height rendered passage impossible.

"Well, that's a clear sign if ever I saw one," Anth observed with the philosophical acceptance that nomadic life cultivates. The complex maneuver of turning our substantial home around on the narrow forestry track required patience and precision, but soon we were retracing our path back toward the missed turn-off. These small adventures—these minor recalibrations of route and expectation—had become so woven into our travelling existence that they registered less as inconvenience and more as the natural texture of life embraced without rigid adherence to plans.

The distinctive profile of Ben Lomond—that massive dolerite mountain that dominates northeastern Tasmania's skyline—provided constant orientation as we navigated back toward civilisation. Its looming presence seemed almost sentient, a silent companion observing our meandering progress across its domain. The mountain had featured severall times during our Tasmanian adventure, from hiking many months earlier to multiple forest camps beneath its protective shadow.

As sealed roads eventually replaced gravel tracks, we made a brief but essential detour to Evandale's charming post office, where components for our bus's electrical system expansion awaited collection. These small improvements to our home reflected our constant evolution—each addition or modification born from experience and designed to enhance our mobile existence. Today's acquisition would allow us to better accommodate our imminent guests, ensuring sufficient power for four rather than our usual two.

The timing proved perfect—as we completed our postal errand, Torrin's call announced their arrival at nearby Launceston Airport. With Evandale situated mere minutes from the terminal, we soon found ourselves navigating familiar roads toward the reunion point. Excitement mounted as we approached—not merely for seeing Torrin and Shea again so soon after our Queensland gathering, but for welcoming both young men into our particular version of home.

They emerged through the terminal doors with backpacks strapped to their shoulders, faces lighting with recognition as our gold bus approached. Their luggage bulged with warm clothing—practical preparation for the Tasmanian winter adventure awaiting them. The initial embraces carried that beautiful familiarity underscored by the novel context—family reuniting not in conventional home but in transient space, not for obligatory holiday but for chosen adventure.

Hunger dictated our first activity as a temporarily expanded family unit. The golden arches of McDonald's provided neutral territory for relaxed conversation and forward planning. Over burgers and fries, we discussed possibilities rather than certainties—the beautiful open-endedness of nomadic life requiring explanation to those accustomed to more structured travel experiences.

"We never really know where we'll be tomorrow," Sal explained, "but that's half the magic of it."

The boys' enthusiasm proved infectious, their youthful energy and ready acceptance of uncertainty reminding us what we loved most about this lifestyle. As conversation flowed between bites, loose plans crystallised around showcasing Tasmania's winter beauty—Cradle Mountain, perhaps Mount Field's towering forests, maybe the western wilderness areas if weather permitted.

With darkness settling around us, we drove the short distance back to Honeysuckle Banks—that reliable free camp on Evandale's outskirts that had hosted us through multiple transitions. Where previously we had shared this space with numerous fellow travellers, tonight the expansive grassy area stood completely deserted—winter's advance having driven the seasonal tourists back to mainland warmth. This solitude felt like a gift, providing perfect space for our temporary family expansion.

The bus interior transformed into evening gathering place as we pulled out a beloved board game—that universal facilitator of connection across generations. Laughter punctuated strategic decisions, good-natured competition fostering the particular intimacy that games uniquely provide. Through these simple shared activities, the strange became familiar, our unusual home becoming simply home, our unconventional life simply life.

We had come prepared for this moment, our hiking tents, sleeping mats and quality sleeping bags would be put to good use for the next few weeks. The boys erected their temporary dwellings on the frost-hardened grass beside our bus, their excitement undampened by the plummeting temperature. This marked their first night ever on Tasmanian soil, a milestone worth commemorating despite the increasing chill.

Morning arrived with winter's unmistakable signature—their tent flies transformed to crystalline canvases as frost claimed every exposed surface. This silver decoration caught early sunlight in diamond-like sparkles, beautiful despite the fingers-numbing cold it represented. The boys emerged from their tents with visible breath clouds and wide grins, declaring the experience considerably warmer than their recent Japanese winter, yet authentically Tasmanian nonetheless.

As we gathered around steaming coffee in the bus's warmth, conversations turned toward the day ahead—not with rigid itinerary but with the beautiful openness that characterises lives untethered from obligation. This sharing of our nomadic existence with family represented something profound—not merely showcasing Tasmania's magnificent landscapes, but demonstrating the values and freedoms we had embraced in choosing wheels over foundations, experiences over possessions, and the eternal question "where next?" over the certainty of a single, unchanging address.Read more