Power Trails and Old Friends

For the first time in months, our bus carried only its original crew—just Sal and Anth navigating the familiar roads with unfamiliar lightness. The absence of additional voices, belongings, and energy created space we hadn't realised had been compressed. Not that we'd minded the company—Sophie's month-long presence had enriched our journey, Torrin's companionship had added new dimensions to our adventures—but returning to our foundational configuration felt like slipping into well-worn boots, comfortable in their perfect familiarity.

We headed east from the house-sit, leaving behind weeks of suburban comfort and birthday celebrations that still glowed warm in memory. The town of Kilmore lay less than thirty minutes ahead, its practical offerings—supermarket, fuel station, water fill—providing necessary provisioning for our return to bush life. As we moved through aisles selecting supplies for the coming week, we found ourselves automatically reaching for quantities suited to two rather than three or four, our shopping trolley reflecting this return to simpler mathematics.

"Feels strange buying wraps for just us," Sal observed, holding a packet that would have disappeared in days with Torrin's appetite contributing to consumption. Now it would last the week, this small detail marking the shift in our domestic economy.

WikiCamps had revealed Mount Disappointment State Forest during our house-sitting research sessions—the unusually named Number One Camp promising dispersed sites among mountain ash and stringybark eucalypts. The name itself had sparked curiosity; Mount Disappointment allegedly christened by explorers Hamilton Hume and William Hovell in 1824 when the summit failed to provide the panoramic views they'd anticipated. We hoped the camping would prove less disappointing than the historical naming suggested.

The Friday afternoon arrival coincided with weekend warriors claiming their temporary territories. Cars and four-wheel drives scattered throughout the camping area, each group establishing their brief sovereignty over patches of forest floor. We navigated through the occupied sites, eventually discovering something unexpected—the remnants of a World War II Italian POW camp, marked by concrete slab and an information board revealing this forest's hidden history. The site sat in the open near the road, exposed but historically significant, and crucially, unclaimed by other campers.

"Camping next to history," Anth observed as we positioned ourselves beside these wartime ghosts. "Those Italian prisoners probably never imagined recreational vehicles would one day occupy their forced accommodation."

The weekend unfolded with predictable rhythms. Day-trippers arrived each morning, their dirt bikes roaring through forest trails in mechanical swarms that shattered the peace. Families established elaborate camps for single nights, their generators and music creating suburban bubbles within the wilderness. We observed this weekly migration with anthropological detachment, understanding that for many, these brief escapes represented precious freedom from urban routine. By Sunday afternoon, the exodus began—cars loaded, bikes secured, the forest gradually reclaiming its quietude until we stood nearly alone among the towering trees.

When weekday arrived, the forest transformed completely. Wind became our new companion, howling through the canopy with such force that trees swayed in hypnotic dance. The sound built from whisper to roar, punctuated by the crack of falling branches and the groan of wood pushed beyond comfortable limits. Dust clouds rose from fire trails, swirling through shafts of sunlight like earthbound spirits made visible.

"Listen to that," Sal said during one particularly intense gust, the bus actually rocking slightly despite its substantial weight. "The forest sounds alive."

Our position in the open, while exposing us to wind's full force, proved strategically safer than sheltering beneath large trees—a lesson learned through countless camps where weather turned benign giants into potential hazards. We could enjoy the wind's performance without fearing its consequences, secure in our wheeled sanctuary while nature conducted its symphony around us.

Anth's ankle, still recovering from its Lake Lonsdale rebellion, had healed sufficiently for careful activity. The discovery of geocaching power trails throughout the forest provided perfect rehabilitation—moderate exercise with purpose beyond mere movement. He'd set off each morning, sometimes walking, occasionally attempting short runs, following GPS coordinates to hidden caches tucked throughout the forest. His satisfaction at adding dozens of finds to his growing total carried beyond mere numbers; each successful cache represented another step toward full recovery.

"Over 30 today," he announced after one particularly productive expedition, his ankle showing no signs of protest. "This forest is geocaching paradise."

The unexpected message from Justin transformed our week entirely. We'd last seen him over a year ago, watching his farewell to Tasmania as he left Lake Peddar for mainland adventures. Now, circling back through Victoria en route to beginning another Tasmanian chapter, his path intersected ours with timing that felt orchestrated by cosmic GPS. His message promised arrival soon, carrying stories of northern adventures and future plans.

When Justin's familiar van appeared through the trees, the reunion felt like recovering a missing piece from our journey's puzzle. His embrace carried the warmth of shared history—those final Tasmanian days when he'd been part of our nomadic constellation, the adventures shared before paths diverged. Over coffee brewed on the Pomoly, stories flowed like the wind still rushing through canopy above.

"Can't believe it's been a year," Justin marvelled, looking simultaneously older and younger—the paradox of travel's effect on those who embrace it fully. "Feels like yesterday and forever ago."

He and Sal joined Anth on his geocaching expeditions, their eight-kilometre walks becoming mobile storytelling sessions. Each cache discovered prompted another tale—Justin's Queensland adventures, our mainland transitions, the strange synchronicities that seemed to follow those who chose unconventional paths. The forest absorbed their laughter and conversation, three friends whose connection transcended time and distance, proving that some relationships don't require constant proximity to remain vital.

Justin's departure carried inevitable poignancy. His Spirit of Tasmania booking beckoned, that familiar ferry ready to transport him back to the island we'd loved so deeply. We stood together in the forest clearing, none of us particularly skilled at goodbyes despite their frequency in our chosen lifestyle.

"See you in Tassie," he said with certainty that made it promise rather than possibility. "When you come back—and you will come back—I'll be there."

The synchronicity of trial screenings created unexpected convergence. Anth's Melbourne appointment aligned perfectly with Torrin's screening date—different trials, same timing, despite Torrin organising his participation from Queensland. Plans crystallised quickly—Torrin would fly down, we'd collect him from the airport, the family unit reforming for another clinical adventure.

Practicality sent us back to Kilmore for essential restocking. Water tanks topped up, diesel replenished, fresh food secured—the mundane tasks that enabled extraordinary living. We moved through these routines with practiced efficiency, each errand a small investment in continued freedom. Better to handle necessities now than navigate them with airport timing pressuring our schedule.

"Can't believe Torrin's screening lined up perfectly," Sal observed as we returned to camp. "What are the odds?"

The airport run carried its own minor drama. Following GPS directions toward what promised to be convenient airport access, we found ourselves ascending an on-ramp that suddenly sprouted height restriction warnings. The barriers loomed ahead like giant's gates, our bus clearly exceeding their tolerance. As we stopped, uncertain how to proceed, security arrived quickly, their efficient response suggesting this wasn't their first encounter with oversized vehicles attempting this route. They blocked the road behind us while Anth guided our reversing manoeuvre down the ramp, other drivers waiting with varying degrees of patience and amusement.

"Well, that was exciting," Anth muttered, sweat beading despite winter temperatures. "Note to self: check clearances before committing to airport routes."

Alternative navigation eventually delivered us safely to arrivals, where Torrin emerged with backpack and stories of his preparations for his New Zealand hike His presence immediately shifted our dynamic back to trio configuration, the bus suddenly fuller but somehow more complete. Rather than seeking new camps near Melbourne's orbit, we collectively decided to return to Mount Disappointment—the known sanctuary preferable to uncertain alternatives when darkness approached.

The drive back through state forest darkness provided unexpected entertainment. Torrin watched the thermal camera, its screen mounted on the dashboard revealing the forest's hidden nightlife. Kangaroos appeared as glowing shapes beside the road, their presence invisible to normal vision but clearly displayed on the electronic display. Each sighting prompted excited commentary, the technology transforming ordinary transit into nocturnal safari.

"There! Three more on the left," Torrin called out, watching the screen intently. "This thing is incredible."

Our final night at Number One Camp felt like gentle conclusion to an unexpectedly rich chapter. What had begun as simple forest retreat had evolved into reunion venue, rehabilitation ground, and launching pad for next adventures. The wind had calmed to whispers, the weekend crowds remained days away, and we three settled into familiar evening routines—Torrin setting up his tent beside the old POW site, Sal preparing dinner, Anth planning tomorrow's journey to Wallan's V-Line station.

The next morning arrived with purpose. Both Anth and Torrin needed to catch the V-Line into Melbourne for their trial obligations, the train from Wallan providing direct access to the city's medical precinct. As we packed up camp, the forest held us in its ancient embrace one last time. Tomorrow would bring trains and trials, urban necessities and medical assessments. But tonight we remained suspended between adventures, our small family reconstituted, our mobile home parked precisely where it belonged—in the margin between civilisation and wilderness, that liminal space where we'd learned to thrive.Read more