Flexibility as Freedom's Currency

The ritual of road life demanded its dues as we approached Ararat—water tanks thirsting for replenishment, rubbish bins heavy with the accumulated detritus of nomadic days. These mundane necessities anchored us to the practical world even as our spirits soared free. We pulled into the designated spot, the familiar choreography of hoses and bins playing out with practiced efficiency, each task a small maintenance of our mobile sovereignty.

In town proper, we sought out the fuel station to satisfy another need—topping up the diesel heater's tank. This recent addition to our bus had quickly become Sal's most cherished upgrade, transforming bitter winter mornings into cosy awakenings, the gentle rumble of its operation like a mechanical lullaby against the cold. She watched with proprietary satisfaction as the amber fuel flowed, already anticipating the warmth it would bring to future frosty dawns.

The phone rang just as we'd settled back into our seats, payment complete but engine not yet started. Anth's expression shifted as he listened, the casual afternoon suddenly pivoting on the axis of unexpected news. Both he and Torrin would need to re-screen for the trial—a requirement that in Tasmania would have meant expensive flights and complicated logistics. But here, rolling free on mainland roads, it was merely a matter of adjusting our compass bearing. The beauty of nomadic life revealed itself in moments like these: when change arrived not as catastrophe but as simple recalculation, when flexibility was not just philosophy but practical salvation.

Our fingers flew across phone screens, reaching out to Jack with the tentative question of front-yard sanctuary. Plans that had stretched luxuriously across a full week in the Grampians compressed like an accordion, longer hikes becoming shorter ventures, seven days distilling to just a few. Yet there was no disappointment in this condensation, only the fluid grace of adaptation. Going with the flow wasn't just a catchphrase in our vocabulary—it was the very current that carried us forward.

Less than an hour west, still within the Grampians' magnificent embrace but now on an accelerated timeline, Plantation Campground welcomed us with a solitude almost matching Langi Ghiran's gift. We were discovering a delicious secret: Victorian winter camps stood largely empty, the cold keeping fair-weather campers at bay. What others saw as a deterrent, we embraced as invitation. Just as we'd loved Tasmania's winter solitude, so too did we cherish Victoria's abandoned campgrounds, each empty site a private paradise.

The campground nestled within the regimented rows of an old Radiata Pine plantation, the trees standing in military precision so different from the chaotic beauty of native forest. We were on the eastern edge of the Mount Difficult Range, a name that seemed to promise adventure even as we sat still. We wound through the forest lanes, the pine needles carpeting the ground in bronze abundance, until the perfect spot revealed itself—level enough for comfort, open enough for morning sun, sheltered enough for evening fires.

As we settled into our newest temporary home, the Grampians themselves rose before us like ancient titans frozen in stone. These mountains didn't merely occupy the horizon; they commanded it, their weathered faces and dramatic scarps promising stories written in geological time. They towered above our small camp with patient majesty, waiting for us to explore their secrets, to trace their walking paths and discover their hidden places. Even compressed to just days instead of a week, we knew these mountains would offer more than enough wonder.

The phone call that had seemed like disruption now felt like destiny. Our shortened stay would be no less sweet for its brevity. If anything, the compressed timeline would distil our Grampians experience into something more intense, more precious. Tomorrow we would walk those waiting trails, but tonight we simply sat in the shadow of mountains, grateful for the adaptability that turned obstacles into opportunities, that transformed every change of plan into just another verse in our ongoing adventure song.

Morning arrived with the pine forest releasing its night-held cold in wisps of mist that danced between the regimented trunks. Our revised itinerary called for shorter ventures, and the Heatherlie Trail answered perfectly—a modest loop that promised glimpses into the Grampians' industrial past without demanding the full day our original plans had envisioned. We set out with the diesel heater's warmth still lingering in our bones, following the trail as it wound away from the geometric certainty of plantation pines into native bush that remembered older rhythms.

The quarry revealed itself gradually, not as a single dramatic scar but as a scattered archaeology of human ambition slowly being reclaimed by patient vegetation. Stone foundations emerged from tangles of native grasses like broken teeth, their purpose now indecipherable. Rusted metal fragments punctuated the undergrowth—perhaps pieces of crushing equipment or transport machinery, now serving only as perches for curious birds. The bush was winning its slow war of reclamation, threading green fingers through every gap, softening harsh edges with moss and lichen, transforming industrial remnants into something almost beautiful in their decay. Here was proof that even our most permanent-seeming marks upon the landscape were merely temporary annotations in nature's longer story.

As we turned the bus deeper into the Grampians, we carried with us the quiet satisfaction of plans gracefully adapted. Tomorrow would bring its own shortened adventures before we redirected eastward for the re-screening, but today had proven that sometimes a condensed journey concentrates the magic rather than diminishing it. Like the quarry slowly returning to earth, we too were learning to let our fixed intentions soften into something more organic, more alive to the moment's possibilities.Read more