One Last Farewell

With our nomadic family temporarily expanded, we gathered around the tablet displaying our digital maps, tracing potential routes with the swipe of fingers across the screen. A consensus quickly emerged—we would journey north to bid farewell to Terry at Springlawn campground in Narawntapu National Park. Though we had seen him relatively recently, our imminent departure from Tasmania lent this visit particular significance. This final pilgrimage would also provide perfect opportunity for Anth to install the electrical components acquired in Evandale, enhancing our power system for the mainland adventures ahead.

Our bus wound through Launceston's outer suburbs before following the sinuous path of the Tamar River northward. From their position in the rear lounge, Torrin and Shea absorbed every passing vista with fresh appreciation, their excited observations reminding us how easily we had grown accustomed to Tasmania's extraordinary beauty. Through their eyes, we rediscovered the magnificent river system—its broad waters reflecting winter clouds, historical buildings punctuating shorelines, and distant mountains framing the horizon. Their palpable excitement at leaving urban confines behind resonated deeply with our own perpetual yearning for wilderness.

Practical necessities intruded on our journey in the form of groceries—our supplies requiring significant augmentation to accommodate our doubled occupancy. The small township of Legana provided perfect opportunity to address both provisions and another pressing concern: laundry. With four people's requirements to consider, we gratefully availed ourselves of the local laundromat's efficient services. These mundane tasks—shopping and laundering—took on a different character with our expanded group, transforming from routine chores into shared experiences peppered with conversation and laughter.

By the time we navigated the final approach to Springlawn, daylight was rapidly surrendering to evening gloom—Tasmania's winter days compressed into brief windows of light that demanded efficient use of available hours. The familiar profile of Terry's caravan appeared through the trees, and as we pulled alongside, we could hear the cheerful chirping of his companion cockatiels from within. He emerged immediately, his face brightening with recognition and welcome.

"So these are the boys!" he exclaimed, extending his hand toward Torrin and Shea with the same easy warmth he had always shown us. This particular quality—this immediate acceptance of strangers as friends—had endeared Terry to us from our very first encounter over a year earlier. Now, watching him incorporate our family members into his circle of camaraderie, we felt profound appreciation for the community we had discovered within Tasmania's travelling fraternity.

With introductions complete and plans to reconnect the following day established, we proceeded to our allocated powered site—a rare luxury we typically eschewed in favour of free wilderness camping. Given the winter season and our increased power requirements, however, electrical hookup represented practical necessity rather than indulgence. The boys set about establishing their tents with practiced efficiency while we connected to shore power, each of us instinctively fulfilling our roles in this temporary community.

Evening drew us together around our compact dining table, the bus interior glowing with warmth against the encroaching winter night. Another board game emerged—these analog entertainments having proven their worth as connective tissue between generations. Strategic decisions intermingled with personal stories, friendly competition providing structure for deeper conversation. These simple shared activities—so removed from the digital distractions of conventional life—represented precisely what we valued most about our nomadic existence: genuine connection, unmediated by screens or artificial stimulation.

Nature asserted its dominance overnight as rain began drumming against our metal roof with increasing intensity. Each amplified droplet reminded us of the boys sleeping in the tents mere metres away, vulnerability to elements being the tax collected for wilderness immersion. Our concern proved unnecessary, however—the Hilleberg tents we had carried represented Swedish engineering at its finest, designed to withstand far harsher conditions than a Tasmanian winter shower. Morning revealed both young men emerging dry and rested, the tents having performed their protective function without compromise.

The persistent rain over the next couple of days created unexpected delays in Anth's electrical projects. The Victron DC-DC charger—final component in our evolving power system—would significantly enhance our charging capacity for the mainland journeys ahead, but its installation required dry conditions for safety. When the weather finally cleared enough for outdoor work, Anth spread his tools across a tarpaulin beneath the bus's protected underbelly, his hands moving with practiced confidence born from numerous similar installations. This continual evolution of our mobile home reflected the iterative improvement process that had characterised our entire nomadic existence—each modification born from lived experience rather than theoretical planning.

While Anth communed with voltage and wiring, Sal balanced dual responsibilities within our compact interior—university assignments demanding attention alongside freelance work for Kerry, a work connection maintained since our earliest Tasmanian days. This capacity to simultaneously maintain formal education and professional relationships while embracing nomadic freedom represented the beautiful balance we had struggled to achieve throughout our journey. Technology and determination had transformed what previous generations would have considered impossible into merely challenging—learning and earning while perpetually moving.

By afternoon of our third day, twin miracles had occurred: the electrical system hummed with new capability, and the clouds had retreated to reveal cerulean skies. These developments created perfect conditions for Anth to introduce the boys to the ten-kilometre return journey to Archer's Knob. Though not among our earliest Tasmanian walking experiences, this trail had left its impression on us during previous visits to Springlawn, its varied terrain and magnificent viewpoints making it perfect for sharing with our newcomers.

The three set forth with water bottles and cameras, Torrin and Shea's youthful energy setting a pace that challenged Anth's more seasoned stride. As they disappeared along the trail, Sal watched from the bus window with that particular satisfaction that comes from sharing beloved experiences with those we cherish. The path would lead them through diverse ecosystems—coastal heath, eucalyptus woodland, and windswept bluff—before rewarding their efforts with panoramic views across Bass Strait. This physical exploration of landscape mirrored perfectly our broader desire to introduce the boys to Tasmania's soul rather than merely its surface attractions.

Eventually, practical considerations asserted themselves once more. Sal's university studies required her physical presence in Queensland once again for an intensive three-day campus session. Our time at Springlawn, like all stops in our nomadic journey, carried predefined conclusion. We gathered at Terry's caravan for final farewells, the conversation carrying that particular weight of endings that might stretch years before renewal. His consistent kindness, practical assistance, and authentic friendship had formed a significant thread in our Tasmanian experience.

"We'll see you on the mainland someday," we promised, embracing this fellow traveller who had become so much more than casual acquaintance. Though spoken with genuine intent, these words carried the uncertainty that defines all nomadic connections—future intersections depending on countless variables of timing and trajectory. As we pulled away from Springlawn, glancing back to see Terry's diminishing figure waving from beside his caravan, we felt the poignant duality of our chosen life: the joy of constant discovery balanced against the bittersweet impermanence of connection.Read more