Where the Bus Was Born

While Sophie was away visiting Shea in Sydney, we'd been making good use of her new van. But with the vehicle waiting for the mechanic for some fine tuning, we decided to take the bus down for our next trip instead. Even though it meant another departing moment in what had become an exhausting season of goodbyes, there was genuine joy in travelling together again. The bus hummed beneath us with familiar reassurance, our golden home carrying us through landscapes we'd missed from behind its panoramic windows. We both lamented how long this chapter of separations had stretched, each reunion seeming to carry within it the seeds of the next farewell. We ached for the season to turn, for the moment when we could simply be together without a countdown ticking somewhere in the background.

But that moment hadn't arrived yet. The bus pulled into the Sunshine Coast Airport, and Sal gathered her things for the flight to Melbourne. University workshops awaited. Another platform, another departure, another figure growing smaller through glass. The familiarity of it didn't soften the sting.

Anth watched her disappear into the terminal, then continued south down the coast. The bus needed a few things, and practical tasks provided welcome structure for the hours that followed. But a more pressing matter occupied his thoughts. Twelve months of clinical trials had extracted their toll on his body, and his iron levels had dropped to concerning depths. Under normal circumstances, he might have let time and diet do their work. But with a two-month hike alongside Torrin looming on the horizon, the South Island of New Zealand demanding everything his body could give, a quick fix was needed. An iron infusion appointment had been booked for the following day.

Grannie and Grandad's welcomed him for an overnight stay, their home performing its familiar role as waypoint between obligations. One more night under a solid roof before the next chapter of logistics unfolded.

The following morning, Anth navigated the bus toward his appointment, searching for somewhere to park a vehicle that didn't fit neatly into standard bays. Street after street offered nothing suitable until, by a coincidence that felt almost scripted, the only available space revealed itself directly outside our old house on the lake at Wurtulla. The very same spot where Anth had spent countless days building the bus when we'd first bought it, back when this entire adventure existed only as blueprint and ambition. The bus now sat polished and proven in the exact location where it had been born, a full circle moment that demanded quiet acknowledgement before he walked to his appointment.

The infusion went smoothly, iron flowing into veins that had been depleted by months of blood draws and clinical protocols. With it came the hope of renewed energy, the kind of deep cellular restoration that would prove essential when mountain passes and river crossings replaced waiting rooms and observation wards.

A quick phone call to check on his device. Still on its way from repair. Hopefully tomorrow, they said. Anth weighed his options. A phone was crucial for the upcoming hike. Navigation, communication, safety. It couldn't be left to chance. He decided to wait one more day, pulling the bus into a park not far from Grannie and Grandad's. A quick check confirmed he could stay another night, and the rest of the day filled itself with the endless list of small tasks that preceded any major departure. Adjustments, preparations, the quiet tinkering that transformed anxiety into productivity.

Friday morning brought farewells and genuine thanks to Grannie and Grandad, whose home had served as staging ground for so many of our comings and goings. The girl at the repair shop had said around three o'clock, so Anth used the intervening hours wisely. Hiking supplies were purchased, those final items that separated a well-prepared tramper from a hopeful one. A couple of remaining bits for the bus found their way into bags. The list shortened with each errand completed.

At three o'clock, Anth arrived at the shop with expectation. The phone wasn't there. It's at the depot, the girl explained, her expression carrying the particular discomfort of delivering news she couldn't control. There was no point or reason to direct frustration at her. The situation sat beyond her means to influence, just as it sat beyond Anths. These small moments of forced acceptance had become familiar teachers on this journey, reminders that flexibility mattered more than frustration, that plans existed only as suggestions the universe might or might not honour.

With a tentative plan to collect the phone on Monday, the last possible opportunity before his flight, Anth pointed the bus back toward Gympie. The road north unwound through late afternoon light, another day of preparation behind him, the trail in New Zealand drawing closer with each sunset. The season of departures continued its relentless rhythm, but somewhere ahead, beyond airports and infusions and delayed phone repairs, father and son would meet on a trail at the bottom of the world. That thought alone made every logistical frustration feel remarkably small.Leggi altro