One Less in Our Nomadic Circle

The journey down from Tasmania's central plateau unfolded as a series of farewell curves, each switchback revealing breathtaking vistas through veils of rain and cloud. These winding roads—now so familiar after multiple ascents and descents—carried us away from highland wilderness for what we knew would be the last time during our Tasmanian sojourn. Every bend felt like turning another page in the final chapter of our island story, the landscape seemingly aware of our impending departure as it shrouded itself in atmospheric melancholy.

"Goodbye, beautiful highlands," Sal whispered as the final plateau views disappeared behind us, the sentiment capturing our collective feeling as wilderness gradually surrendered to increasing signs of civilisation.

Our destination was Launceston, not for its own appeal but for necessary errands—initiating the boys into another fundamental aspect of nomadic life: the town day. This carefully choreographed dance of maximum efficiency represented the practical counterbalance to our wilderness immersion—compressing essential tasks into minimal time to facilitate swift return to preferred natural environments.

"The secret to successful nomadic life," Anth explained to Torrin as we navigated city streets that felt suddenly chaotic after days of wilderness solitude, "is getting through town days as quickly as possible."

The laundromat became our operational base—washing machines humming with our collective clothing while we scattered to various essential destinations across Launceston. Shea required supplies from Officeworks, Anth's list directed him toward Bunnings' familiar green aisles, while Sal collected new spectacles that had completed their own journey from Queensland. Between these missions, we regrouped at the laundromat to transfer damp clothes to dryers before continuing our separate quests. This compartmentalised efficiency reflected eighteen months of refined practice—an urban survival skill as essential to sustained nomadic existence as finding level parking or conserving water.

Tasks completed and fresh laundry folded, we pointed our home on wheels toward Honeysuckle Banks once more—that reliable sanctuary that had sheltered us through multiple transitions during our Tasmanian adventure. Shea's impending departure loomed in our collective consciousness, his early morning flight necessitating alarms set for the decidedly uncivilised hour of 4:30 am—a time when night still claimed complete dominion over the Tasmanian landscape.

As evening approached, rain began its persistent percussion against our roof—nature's gentle suggestion that perhaps outdoor sleeping arrangements might prove challenging. The boys, who had adapted so readily to tent and hammock accommodation during our recent explorations, were spared their usual canvas deployment as we reconfigured our interior space to accommodate all four bodies. The transformation created intimate proximity—Sal and Anth in their usual position, Torrin extending the sleeping surface, while Shea established comfortable nest on a hiking mattress across the floor.

This cosy arrangement proved fortunate as rain continued its relentless rhythm throughout the night, thousands of liquid fingers tapping messages against our metal roof. When the alarm eventually pierced predawn darkness, we moved through hushed preparations with minimal disruption—the interior configuration allowing swift transition from sleep to departure without struggling with rain-soaked tents or saturated hammocks.

The drive to Launceston Airport unfolded through darkness barely penetrated by headlights, the landscape existing more as suggestion than visible reality. Shea's farewell carried that particular poignancy of connection temporarily suspended rather than concluded—his Tasmanian adventure complete while ours continued toward its own approaching finale. As he disappeared through security, our temporarily expanded family unit contracted once more, leaving the three of us to navigate our remaining island days.

Rather than immediately continuing toward new destinations, we returned to Honeysuckle Banks and surrendered to sleep's remaining embrace—a decision perfectly aligned with our nomadic philosophy. Though brief consideration was given to immediate onward journey, the combination of darkness, rain, and unnecessary haste made waiting until proper daylight the obvious choice.

"We're never in a hurry," Anth reminded Torrin as we settled back into sleep's embrace. This simple statement encapsulated perhaps the most profound gift our nomadic existence had provided—liberation from arbitrary urgency, freedom to move according to natural rhythms rather than imposed schedules, the luxury of waiting for proper light before continuing life's journey.

As consciousness faded once more, the persistent rain created perfect soundtrack for these final Tasmanian transitions—days of farewell unfolding with the same unhurried grace that had characterised our entire extraordinary island sojourn.Read more