The Art of Moving Too Quickly

Leaving the Grampians felt like closing a book after reading only the first chapter. Each trailhead we passed prompted wistful glances—the promise of future adventures marked by wooden signs pointing toward hidden waterfalls, dramatic lookouts, and ancient rock art we hadn't time to explore. The mountains retreated in our mirrors with our silent promise to return when clinical trials no longer dictated our movements, when we could afford the luxury of slow exploration these ancient sandstone formations deserved.

"We'll be back," Sal said, voicing our collective thought as another spectacular trail marker disappeared behind us. "Properly next time."

Swinging the bus eastward toward Melbourne, we paused less than an hour into our journey at Lake Bolac. The free camps here appeared pleasant enough—well-maintained sites with basic amenities—but the arithmetic of distance versus daylight prompted continuation. Better to spread the return journey across two days with shorter driving segments than push through in one exhausting marathon.

Our next coordinate came courtesy of WikiCamps and Anth's careful planning—Smythesdale, a small country town offering free camping within its public gardens. The expansive grassed area welcomed us with that particular brand of rural generosity we'd encountered throughout regional Victoria. Fellow travellers dotted the grounds at respectful distances, each creating their temporary island of domesticity within the communal space.

Without suitable trees for hammock suspension, Torrin adapted with good grace to bus floor accommodation—the hiking mattress providing adequate comfort even if it lacked the adventurous appeal of swaying beneath stars. This flexibility in sleeping arrangements had become another small marker of his integration into nomadic life, accepting available options rather than lamenting absent preferences.

"These quick stops aren't really our style," Anth observed as we settled for the evening, the statement capturing our collective restlessness with this ping-pong progression between wilderness and city.

Indeed, these single-night pauses felt like reading poetry at traffic lights—technically possible but missing the essential ingredient of unhurried contemplation. Our souls had calibrated to different rhythms during eighteen months of Tasmanian exploration, where camps stretched across multiple days and destinations revealed themselves through patient observation rather than fleeting glimpse. These mainland transit days served necessary purpose but left us yearning for the slower pace that transformed travel from mere movement into meaningful experience.

Melbourne loomed ahead with its clinical trials and potential funding—practical necessities that would enable future freedom. But as we settled into Smythesdale's quiet evening, we found ourselves already planning beyond these obligations, imagining return journeys where time would stretch rather than compress, where the Grampians' trails could be explored rather than merely observed, where our preferred rhythm of discovery could reassert itself over the demanding tempo of necessity.Read more