An Ankle's Rebellion

The western route from Melbourne carried us through familiar territory—Ballarat's gold-rush grandeur glimpsed peripherally, Beaufort's rural quietude barely registering as we pressed onward, until Ararat rose from the plains with its particular significance. This town had witnessed our previous pivot, where trial obligations had forced us to abandon Grampians exploration weeks earlier. Now, returning with second chances and clearer schedules, we felt the weight of unfinished business pulling us toward those ancient sandstone sentinels.

Yet weather, that eternal arbiter of outdoor plans, suggested patience rather than persistence. The forecast promised rain—not the gentle mists that enhance hiking but the persistent downpours that transform trails into treacherous streams. Wisdom born from countless weather-forced adaptations prompted recalculation. Rather than rushing directly into the Grampians only to shelter from storms, we would pause at Lake Lonsdale—a mere twenty minutes from our intended mountain basecamp but offering its own quiet rewards while skies cleared their burden.

"Let's wait it out properly," Anth suggested, studying the weather maps with practiced pessimism. "Better to arrive when we can actually explore."

The slight northern detour revealed Lake Lonsdale spread like pewter mirror beneath gathering clouds. Other campers dotted the shoreline at respectful distances, but we navigated toward perfection—a position offering unobstructed views across the water's expanse, where sunset and sunrise would paint their daily masterpieces without interference. As we settled into position, the lake began its subtle seduction, its particular peace suggesting that waiting here would be pleasure rather than penance.

Our first full day brought meteorological theatre of the highest order. The promised rain arrived with morning, sweeping across the lake transforming the far shore into impressionist suggestion. We watched from our warm and dry sanctuary, while outside the world dissolved in grey wetness. Then, as afternoon surrendered to evening, nature provided compensation for the day's dampness—a double rainbow arcing across the lake with such vivid perfection that we stood transfixed, cameras inadequate to capture the moment's magic.

"Look at that," Sal breathed, the rainbow's reflection creating perfect circle between sky and water. "It's like the lake's apologising for the weather."

The colours intensified as if responding to our attention—not one but two complete arcs spanning the entire visible horizon, their feet seemingly planted in the lake itself. Other campers emerged from their shelters, all of us united in wordless appreciation of this atmospheric gift. These moments—unexpected, unearned, unforgettable—represented the true wealth of nomadic life, experiences that no amount of planning could guarantee but patience occasionally provided.

Our second night at Lake Lonsdale began like any other, dinner completed and evening routines unfolding with practiced ease. Anth stepped from the bus for a brief toilet visit, the darkness complete beyond our small circle of light. The sound that followed—part groan, part gasp, entirely pain—shattered the evening's peace with visceral immediacy. Sal and Torrin erupted from the bus to find Anth collapsed on the ground, his face contorted in agony that needed no explanation.

"My ankle," he managed through clenched teeth. "Stepped on a root... wrong angle... all my weight..."

The small root, invisible in darkness and positioned with malicious perfection, had rolled his ankle with such violence that the pain registered as immediate ten on his personal scale—a rating reserved for genuine trauma rather than minor mishap. Nausea washed over him in waves as his body processed the shock, forcing him to remain prone while we helped him back into the bus with careful manoeuvring.

Sal's dormant nursing instincts activated with automatic precision. Rest, Ice, Compression, Elevation—the RICE protocol emerged from memory as she orchestrated treatment with quiet efficiency. But when she examined the ankle properly under interior lights, collective intake of breath acknowledged the severity. The swelling had been instantaneous and dramatic—a egg-sized protrusion distorting the ankle's normal architecture, the skin stretched tight and already purpling with subcutaneous bleeding.

"That's... significant," Torrin observed with characteristic understatement, his expression suggesting greater concern than his words conveyed.

Ice packs fashioned from frozen vegetables, the ankle wrapped with practiced precision, elevation achieved through creative cushion arrangement—Sal worked with focused determination while Anth processed waves of pain that seemed to pulse with his heartbeat. Gradually, incrementally, the agony subsided from unbearable to merely severe, allowing coherent thought to return.

"I'm so sorry," Anth repeated, the guilt in his voice cutting deeper than physical pain. "The Grampians... we're going to miss them again because of my stupidity."

Both Sal and Torrin assured him that mountains would wait, that ankles mattered more than itineraries, but his devastation at this second thwarted attempt was palpable. The Grampians had become more than destination—they represented unfinished business, natural magnificence we'd twice approached but never properly explored. Now injury rather than obligation would force another deferment, the mountains receding once more into future possibility rather than present reality.

Assessment suggested damage significant but not catastrophic. While his ankle could not yet bear weight and even though the swelling severe, nothing indicated obvious fracture. Still, prudence demanded professional evaluation—a small regional hospital's x-ray could confirm our hopeful diagnosis or reveal complications requiring proper treatment.

Dawn brought role reversal as Sal claimed the driver's seat with newfound confidence, her weeks of solo practice during the men's trial translating into smooth competence. Torrin assumed navigator position, directing our path toward Stawell's regional hospital—fifteen minutes through countryside that might have been scenic under different circumstances but now merely represented distance between injury and assessment.

The hospital's emergency department received us with rural efficiency—minimal wait, maximum care. The x-ray process unfolded with familiar rhythm for Anth, who had accumulated enough injury experience to navigate medical procedures with resigned expertise. We waited in plastic chairs that had witnessed countless anxious families, the fluorescent lighting harsh after days of natural illumination.

"No fracture," the nurse practitioner announced with professional cheerfulness that felt like reprieve. "Severe sprain, significant soft tissue damage, but the bones are intact."

Relief flooded through our small group, though Anth's mobility remained severely compromised. Crutches were procured—aluminium supports that would become his temporary appendages for coming weeks. The professional assessment complete, we faced the reality of adjusted plans with philosophical acceptance born from long practice.

"Where to now?" Torrin asked as we wheeled Anth back to the bus, his crutch technique not quite up to scratch just yet.

The answer came easily—we would continue to our planned post-Grampians destination, skipping the mountain exploration entirely rather than attempting compromised adventures. The ankle required rest, not heroics. The Grampians would endure our absence as they had endured everything else for millions of years, their ancient patience making our human urgency seem suddenly trivial.

As Sal guided us away from Stawell, Anth elevated and iced in the back, we carried mixed emotions toward our redirected future. Disappointment at another missed opportunity wrestled with relief that the injury hadn't been worse, frustration at random misfortune balanced by gratitude for Sal's confident driving and Torrin's supportive presence. The root that had caught Anth's foot had altered our trajectory as surely as any conscious decision, reminder that control remained always partial, plans always provisional.

"Third time lucky," Anth muttered through pain medication's emerging embrace. "The Grampians aren't going anywhere."

Indeed, the mountains would wait with geological patience for our eventual return. This second deferment felt less like failure than deepening anticipation—when we finally explored those ancient peaks, the appreciation would be magnified by delay, the experience enriched by obstacles overcome. For now, we would continue forward on our adjusted path, Anth's ankle healing with each passing kilometre, our story accumulating another unexpected chapter in its ever-expanding narrative.Read more