First Chapter Beyond Tasmania

The mainland stretched before us like an unwritten chapter, its vastness both thrilling and slightly overwhelming after eighteen months of Tasmania's intimate embrace. Our first camp needed to balance practicality with promise—close enough to Melbourne for the upcoming clinical trial screening that held keys to future adventures, yet far enough to maintain our connection with wild spaces. Tanners Road Bend campground in the Otway State Forest emerged as our chosen threshold, less than an hour from civilisation but wrapped in the ancient green of towering eucalypts.

Driving through this unfamiliar territory stirred something primal within us—that particular cocktail of excitement and uncertainty that marks true exploration. Every bend revealed landscapes we'd never seen, each road sign pointed toward places existing only as names on our mental maps. After the deep familiarity of Tasmania's roads, where we could navigate by memory and instinct, this return to the unknown felt like rediscovering our nomadic purpose. The bus hummed beneath us with renewed energy, as if it too sensed the vastness of possibility stretching ahead.

The Otway State Forest welcomed us with filtered sunlight and the distinctive scent of mainland bush—somehow different from Tasmania's wilderness, earthier and more expansive. As we navigated toward our designated spot, the presence of other campers surprised us. Where Tasmanian camps often offered solitude as standard, here civilisation pressed closer even in the forest's heart. Caravans and tents dotted the landscape like suburban echoes, reminding us that proximity to Melbourne brought its own particular rhythms.

Torrin wasted no time establishing his own territory, stringing his hammock between two sturdy trees beside our bus. Watching him create his personal sanctuary within our larger one brought quiet satisfaction—our eldest son embracing the nomadic life with the same adventurous spirit that had carried us this far. His presence added new dimensions to our journey, transforming our couple's adventure into family expedition, each perspective enriching the collective experience.

The afternoon's peace shattered with mechanical rudeness as our grey nomad neighbours fired up their generator. The machine's growl invaded our space with presumptuous authority, its petrol fumes drifting across our camp like unwelcome visitors. After months of Tasmania's pristine air and natural soundscapes, this intrusion felt particularly jarring—a reminder that mainland camping would require different negotiations with fellow travellers. We exchanged knowing glances, the beauty of our mobile lifestyle crystallising in that moment. Within minutes, we had secured Torrin's hammock and rolled deeper into the forest's embrace, seeking those pockets of solitude that rewarded the persistent.

Our new spot offered everything the first had lacked—privacy wrapped in green shadows, birdsong instead of generator hum, air scented with eucalyptus rather than engine fumes. The weekend's ebb and flow brought waves of campers, their numbers swelling with Friday enthusiasm before receding to leave just two caravans and ourselves by Sunday evening. We observed these tides with anthropological interest, noting how differently people approached their brief escapes from urban life compared to our continuous immersion in the wild.

Daily rhythms established themselves with organic ease. While Sal wrestled with university assignments—her education continuing regardless of our shifting geography—Anth and Torrin ventured into the forest's depths, returning with armloads of fallen timber. The Pomoly stove, our faithful companion through countless camps, transformed their gathered wood into meals that tasted of smoke and satisfaction. This simple act of collection and combustion connected us to ancestral patterns, each meal cooked over flames we'd sourced ourselves carrying deeper nourishment than mere calories.

The forest's canopy, while providing blessed shade and privacy, presented its own challenges. Our solar panels struggled beneath the filtered light, forcing careful rationing of our electrical reserves. "Save power for the important things," became our mantra, though definitions of importance shifted with circumstance. Sal's laptop for assignments claimed priority, followed by phones for navigation and communication. Everything else fell into the category of luxury, reminding us how quickly we'd adapted to simpler needs.

Between firewood expeditions and academic pursuits, Anth dove into research for our post-screening adventures. Digital maps revealed possibilities branching like the forest paths surrounding us. Each potential campsite marked represented not just a destination but a choice, a direction our story might flow. The clinical trial screening loomed as both practical necessity and potential gateway—success would mean funding for continued exploration, transforming financial pressure into freedom's fuel.

Tuesday arrived wearing wind like wild clothing, gusts shaking our bus with increasing insistence. The forecast had whispered warnings, but experiencing the forest's mood shift felt more immediate than any meteorological prediction. Torrin's hammock swayed like a ship in a storm, its occupant maintaining admirable calm despite the aerial acrobatics. By afternoon, wisdom overruled adventure; we helped him relocate inside our bus, his presence transforming our compact space into something cosier rather than cramped.

The wind's percussion soon gained liquid accompaniment as rain swept through the canopy above. We listened to nature's symphony from within our metal sanctuary, grateful for the solid walls we'd insulated with our own hands. The storm reminded us why we'd chosen bus over tent, structure over fabric—not from desire for comfort alone but for the freedom to remain present during nature's more dramatic performances rather than merely enduring them.

As darkness approached with the storm still raging, instinct prompted another relocation. The trees that had provided such welcome shade now loomed as potential hazards, their branches whipping about with concerning enthusiasm. We packed efficiently—months of practice making the process almost automatic—and returned to a spot near our original camp. Less trees meant less risk, though it also meant sacrificing the privacy we'd sought. Sometimes wisdom trumps preference, especially when home has wheels and weather has opinions.

Dawn arrived dressed in gentleness, the storm having exhausted itself during the night. Sunlight streamed through clear skies, transforming yesterday's threatening forest into today's benign beauty. We surveyed our surroundings with satisfaction—no fallen trees, no damage, just puddles reflecting sky and the fresh-washed scent of eucalyptus. The mainland had tested us gently, a minor challenge compared to Tasmania's more dramatic weather events, yet it served as reminder that every new territory would bring its own lessons.

The drive back to Geelong unfolded with purpose rather than wandering. The screening awaited—that practical intrusion into our nomadic flow that might paradoxically enable its continuation. As the forest gave way to farmland and farmland to suburbs, we felt the familiar tension between two worlds: the one that demanded appointments and schedules, and the one that measured time in sunsets and seasons. Our ability to navigate between them had become another form of freedom, each world enriching rather than diminishing the other.

Tanners Road Bend had provided exactly what we'd needed—a gentle transition from island to mainland, from ending to beginning. We'd tested new rhythms, adapted to different camping cultures, remembered how to find solitude even in popularity's shadow. Most importantly, we'd proven that our nomadic narrative could continue beyond Tasmania's shores, each new chapter building upon the last while writing its own unique story.

The road ahead stretched with infinite possibility, but first came the screening, that necessary pause in our wandering. As we merged onto the highway toward Geelong, our bus carried more than just three travellers and their possessions. It carried the accumulated wisdom of eighteen months' exploration, the confidence born of successful adaptation, and the unshakeable knowledge that home was not a place but a practice—one we'd continue perfecting with each new horizon.Read more