The Blind Wallaby's Benediction

The maps had become Anth's evening ritual during our enforced pause—digital cartography revealing hidden sanctuaries where time might lose its urgency while we waited for the trial that would call us back to structured civilisation. Langi Ghiran State Forest emerged from his searches like a promise written in contour lines and unmarked roads, the first waypoint in what we imagined might become a constellation of temporary refuges.

Our unplanned sojourn in Haddon had compressed our timeline by merely a day—a negligible delay that now felt like serendipity rather than setback. The Western Highway released us willingly when we found our turn, and suddenly the smooth certainty of bitumen gave way to the honest conversation of dirt road. Five kilometres only, but what transformative kilometres they were—the corrugations hammering out their rural percussion against our tyres, each ridge and furrow a Morse code message that we were leaving the mainstream behind.

The camping area revealed itself as an exercise in abundance—not a single other vehicle disturbed the eucalyptus-scented solitude. We circled slowly, curators in an empty gallery, assessing each potential site against our trinity of needs: level ground to cradle our wheeled home, unobstructed sky for our solar panels to harvest their silent energy, and sturdy trees to suspend Torrin's aerial bedroom. The Candlebark Gums solved our third requirement with generous elegance, their white trunks rising like bleached bones from the red earth, bark peeling in long scrolls that littered the ground with nature's discarded manuscripts.

Through careful choreography of forward and reverse, angular adjustments measured in breaths and glances, we coaxed our bus into perfect equilibrium. The portable panels unfolded like mechanical flowers seeking sun, and together with our roof-mounted array, we achieved that satisfying state of electrical independence. What Anth had initially marked as a single night's waypoint began to reveal itself as something more substantial. The abundance of fallen timber for cooking fires, the cathedral silence broken only by bird call and wind song, and Sal's academic obligations still demanding attention—all conspired to extend our stay. The decision made itself, really, settling over us as naturally as evening shadows.

Our most regular visitor announced himself through cautious movement rather than sound—an elderly swamp wallaby whose uncertain gait first caught Anth's attention. There was something in his movements, a tentative quality that spoke of navigating by memory rather than sight. When the sweet perfume of our discarded fruit peels eventually drew him into camp proper, our suspicions were confirmed. His eyes, clouded with the milky veil of blindness, no longer served their original purpose. Yet he moved with dignity, this forest elder, accepting our presence and our offerings with the grace of one who had learned to trust other senses. He became our gentle companion, appearing at the edges of meal times, a reminder that vulnerability and resilience often share the same breath.

The moment arrived with a keystroke—Sal's final assignment for the trimester disappeared into the digital ether, carrying with it weeks of accumulated tension. Academic obligations fulfilled, we could feel the shift in camp atmosphere, like pressure releasing from a sealed container. Celebration demanded movement, and the old Water Race trail beckoned with perfect timing.

This water race, carved by forgotten hands for purposes now returned to earth, had been repurposed by time into a walking trail. Following its gentle curves through the bush, we traced the ghost of human ambition now softened by decades of leaf fall and rain. Perhaps it had once carried precious water to goldfields, or irrigated crops in drier times, or simply served the practical needs of early settlers. Now it served as our victory lap, each step along its moss-softened edges a small celebration of freedom regained. The forest enclosed us in green embrace as we followed this liquid highway, history beneath our feet and future spreading wide before us.

Two hours later, we returned to find our camp exactly as we'd left it—the blind wallaby perhaps wondering at our absence, the Candlebarks still shedding their scrolls of bark. But something had shifted in us. The assignment was submitted, the Water Race walked, the pause properly honoured. We folded away the solar panels with practiced efficiency, secured our traveling life back into road-ready configuration, and fired the bus engine to life.

The corrugated road seemed shorter on the exit, or perhaps we were simply eager for what came next. The bitumen welcomed us back with its smooth assurance, and we turned west once more, pointing toward horizons yet unnamed. Behind us, Langi Ghiran returned to its solitude, keeping safe the memory of our blind visitor, our candlebark shelter, and the quiet celebration of academic endings. Ahead lay the eternal unknown, calling us forward with its reliable mystery.Read more