Between Coast and City Obligations

Heading inland from the coast, each of us quietly processed the magnificence we'd witnessed along the Great Ocean Road. The spectacular limestone formations gradually receded in our mirrors, replaced by pastoral landscapes that seemed almost mundane after days of dramatic coastal vistas. We had completed the road's most celebrated section, with only the drive to Warrnambool remaining to officially tick off this Australian icon.

Warrnambool provided brief respite for practical necessities—diesel for the bus and precious water for our tanks. The mainland's water accessibility proved noticeably different from Tasmania's abundance, where pristine streams and public taps had spoiled us with easy replenishment. Here, water stops required more strategic planning, each fill-up location carefully noted in our digital maps for future reference.

Our original itinerary suggested camping just outside Warrnambool before continuing toward Melbourne the following day. However, the prospect of yet another single-night stop prompted reconsideration. After so many transitional camps—necessary but unsatisfying—the idea of spending two nights in one location held irresistible appeal. We unanimously agreed to push through to Lake Colac, trading immediate rest for the luxury of not packing up at dawn.

Darkness had claimed the landscape by the time we reached Lake Colac's shores, our headlights sweeping across the designated camping area until we found suitable position. The familiar routine of leveling and settling proceeded by torch and habit, each of us moving through well-rehearsed steps despite limited visibility. With two nights ahead and no appropriate trees for hammock suspension, Torrin erected the Hilleberg tent—that bombproof shelter we'd carried but rarely deployed, its Swedish engineering designed for conditions far more severe than Victorian lakeshores.

Morning revealed our lakeside position in proper light—a pleasant if unremarkable setting that offered exactly what we needed: space, quiet, and time to pause. The new solar panels we'd collected before tackling the Great Ocean Road finally received proper deployment, their larger surface area drinking in winter sunshine despite intermittent cloud cover. Combined with the DC-DC charger Terry had helped install during our final Tasmanian days, these upgrades promised extended off-grid capability—technology serving freedom rather than constraining it.

"Look at those numbers," Anth said with satisfaction, monitoring the power flowing into our batteries. "We could stay out here indefinitely now."

Sal seized the stationary opportunity to resume her studies, textbooks and laptop claiming the dinette while winter light streamed through windows. This ability to maintain academic progress while living nomadically represented one of our lifestyle's unexpected successes—education untethered from fixed location, learning enhanced rather than hindered by constantly changing environments.

Our second evening at Lake Colac brought weather reminiscent of Tasmania's dramatic moods. Wind arrived with darkness, building steadily until gusts rocked our substantial vehicle with familiar force. Rain followed, hammering against metal and glass with percussion we'd grown accustomed to during island storms. Inside our golden sanctuary, we remained warm and secure, though thoughts turned to Torrin's tent bearing the brunt of nature's assault.

"That's proper Tassie weather," Anth observed, peering through rain-streaked windows at his shelter. "Good thing the Hilleberg's built for this."

Indeed, the tent's reputation for extreme weather resistance proved justified—lesser shelters would have surrendered to such conditions, but the Hilleberg merely flexed and recovered, its aerodynamic profile shedding wind like water. When conditions briefly calmed, Torrin made his dash from bus to tent, confident in his shelter's ability to withstand whatever the night might bring.

Morning brought calm and vindication—Torrin emerged from his tent unscathed, the Hilleberg having performed exactly as advertised. His satisfaction at successfully weathering the storm alone added another notch to his growing outdoor confidence, each challenge met building resilience for future adventures.

With Sophie's evening arrival at Melbourne Airport setting our day's terminus, we moved through morning routines without urgency. The luxury of time—that precious commodity our lifestyle usually provided in abundance—felt particularly sweet after recent days of constant movement. A visit to local laundromat for full bedding refresh helped consume the hours productively, fresh linens representing fresh chapter as we prepared for our family configuration to shift once more.

The drive toward Melbourne carried mixed emotions. Tomorrow would begin Anth and Torrin's 25-day clinical trial commitment—necessary funding for continued adventures but requiring temporary suspension of our nomadic rhythm. Sophie's arrival would create new dynamic as she experienced bus life alongside Sal, their mother-daughter adventure unfolding while the men fulfilled their medical obligations. This constant evolution of our traveling unit—expanding and contracting with family availability—had become another defining characteristic of our unconventional lifestyle.

As Melbourne's skyline appeared through afternoon haze, we prepared for another transition. The freedom of coastal exploration would pause, replaced by urban necessity. Yet even this interruption carried its own possibilities—Sophie bringing fresh energy to our mobile home, new perspectives on familiar routines, another family member discovering what we'd learned over countless kilometres: that home isn't place but people, that adventure exists wherever curiosity leads, that the best journeys transform not just location but understanding.Read more