Breaking Free: Forest Before Coast

While confined within the clinical facility's sterile walls, Anth had spent evenings hunched over his phone, digital maps revealing possibilities for their post-trial liberation. Twenty-five days of regimented routine—blood draws at precise intervals, meals at designated times, movement restricted to approved areas—had intensified their craving for wilderness immersion. Wilson's Promontory emerged from his research like a beacon, that southernmost tip of mainland Australia promising the antithesis of everything he and Torrin had endured: vast spaces, wild coastlines, unmarked trails stretching toward horizons unbound by clinical protocols.

"Wilson's Prom is absolutely essential," Anth had declared during one of their evening planning sessions, showing Torrin images of granite mountains plunging into turquoise waters. "If we're going to do Victoria properly, we can't miss it."

Now, finally free and reunited with Sal after Sophie's departure, we felt the bus respond to our collective yearning as it pointed southward. The winter season promised what summer could never deliver—solitude in popular places, the gift of experiencing celebrated landscapes without the crowds that typically transformed wilderness into theme park. After nearly a month of zero movement for the men, our bodies craved the honest fatigue of hill climbing, the simple pleasure of choosing our own direction.

The afternoon sun hung low as we navigated away from Melbourne's orbit, Sophie's absence creating new dynamic in our mobile home. The farewell at the airport had carried its own poignancy, but now the road ahead beckoned with promise of redemption through movement. Wilson's Promontory lay hours distant—too far to reach before darkness with our mid-afternoon departure. Wisdom suggested breaking the journey, finding intermediate sanctuary rather than pushing through exhaustion.

"There's a place here," Anth indicated on the map, finger tracing a minor detour from our southern trajectory. "Kurth Kiln Regional Park. Only slight deviation, and WikiCamps shows good camping."

We continued east through Healesville, where a quick stop replenished our water supplies—that precious resource requiring more strategic planning on the mainland than Tasmania's abundance had accustomed us to. From there we turned south, smaller roads leading into deeper forest as daylight surrendered to approaching night. The familiar transition from civilisation to wilderness began its magic—traffic thinning, houses disappearing, eucalyptus forests pressing closer until we were properly embraced by green shadows and fading light.

Darkness had fully claimed the forest by the time we reached Kurth Kiln Regional Park. Our headlights—inadequate for proper bush navigation—swept weakly across the camping area as we searched for suitable position. This fumbling in darkness reminded us once again of the driving lights we'd been meaning to install, each night arrival reinforcing the oversight.

"There," Torrin spotted through the gloom, "perfect trees for the hammock."

Through careful manoeuvring guided more by instinct than vision, we positioned the bus on level ground while Torrin strung his aerial accommodation between two sturdy eucalypts. The forest darkness pressed close, profound in its completeness—no urban glow on any horizon, just the ancient conversation between wind and leaves. After weeks of fluorescent nights and the perpetual hum of air conditioning, this natural darkness felt like medicine.

We had deliberately chosen two nights here, allowing time for proper exploration rather than mere transit. After so much confinement, even one modest hike would serve as celebration of recovered freedom.

Morning revealed our surroundings properly—tall eucalypts creating cathedral light, understory of ferns and fallen logs, the particular beauty of Victorian mountain forest. The weekend's arrival had brought other campers during the night, our section of the loop road now hosting several neighbours, though the sites remained well-spaced and private. This was the mainland dance we were learning—more people than Tasmania, requiring different negotiations with solitude.

After breakfast and coffee savoured without schedule's tyranny, we consulted the AllTrails app for hiking options. The Kurth Kiln Walk presented itself as perfect choice—moderate distance, historical interest, and promise of discovering the park's namesake attraction. We set off with light packs and lighter hearts, the simple act of choosing our own direction carrying profound satisfaction after weeks of prescribed routine.

The trail wound through varying forest types, elevation changes modest but welcome to legs grown soft from inactivity. Several easier sections invited experimentation with trail running—not from any desire for speed but simply from joy of unrestricted movement. Our bodies remembered this freedom gradually, muscles awakening from enforced dormancy.

"It feels good to move," Anth breathed during one pause, the statement encompassing more than physical sensation.

Halfway through our circuit, Torrin's foot found treacherous surface—muddy bank disguised by fallen leaves—sending him sprawling onto the path. His hand, thrown out instinctively to break the fall, found sharp stick instead of soft earth. Blood welled from the cut, annoying in its persistence and our lack of first aid supplies to properly address it.

"Of course," he muttered, examining the wound with disgust while trying to stem the flow with his shirt. "First proper hike in a month and I'm already bleeding."

Without proper supplies, we improvised—cleaning the wound with water and an inspection form Sal's experienced eye. The minor injury did nothing to dampen our collective spirits. If anything, this small mishap felt like proper return to wilderness engagement—nature demanding attention, bodies remembering vulnerability, the honest exchange between human ambition and environmental reality.

The trail's culmination revealed the historical treasure that gave the park its name—the Kurth Kiln itself, a massive brick structure rising from the forest floor like industrial ghost made monument. Information boards revealed its wartime significance: constructed during World War II when petrol rationing threatened Australia's transport capabilities, these kilns mass-produced charcoal as alternative fuel. The surrounding forest had been systematically harvested, timber transformed through controlled burning into transportable energy.

"Imagine the smoke," Sal mused, circling the impressive structure. "This whole valley would have been thick with it."

We explored the site thoroughly, marvelling at the intact retort chambers where wood underwent its transformation, the loading bays where charcoal emerged to fuel a nation adapting to wartime scarcity. Other remnants dotted the area—foundations of workers' quarters, fragments of narrow-gauge railway that once carried timber to the kilns, pieces of metal machinery slowly being reclaimed by patient forest.

This intersection of human history and natural recovery fascinated us. Where once industrial smoke had choked the valley, birdsong now filled the air. Trees had reclaimed the cleared areas, their growth marking decades since the kilns fell silent. It was Tasmania's mine sites and abandoned settlements all over again—human ambition eventually yielding to nature's patient persistence.

Our return to camp carried the satisfied tiredness of bodies properly used. As we prepared for our final night at Kurth Kiln, anticipation for Wilson's Promontory coloured our conversation. Tomorrow we would continue south, trading forest for coast, historical remnants for pristine wilderness. But tonight belonged to this place—to the darkness beyond our fire's reach, to the possum eyes reflecting in torchlight, to the simple pleasure of choosing where to walk and when to rest.

"Wilson's Prom tomorrow," Torrin said with satisfaction as he climbed toward his hammock, makeshift bandage still wrapped around his hand—testament to the day's small adventure and our need to properly restock first aid supplies.

Indeed, tomorrow would bring new landscapes and different challenges. But for now, we had exactly what we'd craved through those long clinical days—the forest's embrace, the freedom to explore, the honest exchange between human curiosity and wild spaces. The charcoal kilns stood silent in the darkness, monuments to adaptation and necessity, while around us the forest continued its eternal processes, indifferent to human history, generous with its shelter for those who sought its peace.Read more