Perfect Timing and Perfect Places

Our journey back to collect Sal took us along now-familiar routes—retracing our path up the sinuous St. Mary's Pass, through the township that shares its name, then onward through the historic settlements of Fingal and Avoca. The landscape remained shrouded in that ethereal Tasmanian winter mist, transforming familiar terrain into mysterious dreamscapes that seemed to exist between defined states of matter. These ghostly veils of moisture softened the world's edges, creating perfect metaphor for our own transitional state—between complete family and partial, between showing Tasmania and preparing to leave it.

Our timing proved impeccable as we arrived at Honeysuckle Banks, that reliable sanctuary that had served us through multiple transitions during our Tasmanian adventure. Within minutes of levelling the bus at our customary spot, Sal's plane appeared overhead—a silver messenger descending through winter clouds toward Launceston's runway. This visual confirmation of imminent reunion carried particular sweetness; after days of being the boys' sole guide through Tasmanian wilderness, Anth felt the balanced completeness that Sal's presence always restored to their nomadic existence.

The short drive to the airport terminal carried that particular energy of anticipation that precedes joyful reunion. As Sal emerged through the arrival gates, our incomplete circle found wholeness once more—the four of us representing temporary but perfect configuration of our family constellation. The bus—that golden sanctuary that had sheltered different combinations of our extended family throughout this journey—welcomed its principal navigator home with familiar embraces of light and warmth.

Practicality asserted itself in the form of grocery acquisition—our expanded household requiring substantial provisioning before venturing back into wilderness. The decision regarding our next destination emerged through collective consideration, each voicing preferences before consensus crystalized around one particular location: Penstock Lagoon. This highland sanctuary had claimed special position in our Tasmanian memory map, its combination of pristine waters, abundant wildlife, and magnificent isolation representing everything we treasured about this extraordinary island.

"You'll love it there," we assured the boys as wheels turned toward central highlands. "It's pure Tasmania."

The journey into escalating elevation carried us through changing ecosystems and diminishing signs of human presence. As familiar landmarks appeared—stone walls, distinctive rock formations, the first glimpses of highland water—we felt that particular satisfaction of returning to beloved territory. When the final turn revealed Penstock's expansive waters, a collective sigh of appreciation escaped our small company. Guiding the bus to precisely the same position we had occupied during our previous visit created tangible sense of completion—perfect bookends to our Tasmanian chapter bringing the boys to this special place before departure.

"It feels like coming home," Sal observed as we levelled into position, not a single other camper visible across the entire landscape. This magnificent isolation—this complete wilderness sanctuary—represented perfect culmination of the boys' Tasmanian immersion.

Camp established itself with practiced efficiency, each person instinctively fulfilling established roles. Shea erected his tent on the grassy expanse adjacent to our bus, while Torrin—having discovered his preference for suspended slumber at Trout Creek—once more established his hammock between appropriately spaced eucalyptus sentinels. This division of accommodation—bus, tent, and hammock—created our own small village beside Penstock's mirrored waters.

Firewood collection became communal mission, each contributing to the growing pile of fallen timber that would sustain evening warmth and cooking. The Dweller stove soon radiated comforting heat as darkness descended with winter efficiency across the highlands. Its dancing flames created perfect gathering point around which the evening naturally organized itself—Sal and Shea remaining fireside while Anth and Torrin embarked on nocturnal adventure of a different sort.

Equipped with powerful torches, father and son ventured into darkness beyond our camp's illumination, seeking encounters with Tasmania's extraordinary wildlife. The highland night revealed itself rich with activity—wallabies feeding on dew-moistened grass, brush-tailed possums observing from tree branches with reflective eyes, and even a masked owl momentarily captured in torchlight before silent wings carried it beyond visibility. Though Torrin's particular hopes for wombat or Tasmanian devil encounters remained unfulfilled, the experience of wilderness darkness—so profoundly different from illuminated urban nights—created its own significant memory.

Our two nights at Penstock passed with that curious acceleration that accompanies profound contentment—time seeming simultaneously endless in moment yet vanishing with startling swiftness in retrospect. Each sunrise painting highland mist with golden possibility, each sunset igniting western clouds in spectacular farewell, each star-filled night reminding us of our magnificent insignificance beneath cosmic perspective—these experiences accumulated into rich tapestry of shared memory that would outlast our physical presence in this landscape.

As we reluctantly prepared for departure on our final morning, the awareness of Shea's imminent return to Queensland colored our activities with that particular bittersweetness that accompanies temporary farewells. His Tasmanian adventure—brief but revelation-filled—had reached its conclusion, while ours continued toward its own approaching finale. The bus pointed itself reluctantly toward Launceston one final time, carrying us from highland sanctuary toward urban necessity, from that perfect isolation into connectivity that would soon separate our temporary family configuration once more.Read more