Nomadic Narratives

The four-hour pilgrimage to Wilson's Promontory stretched before us like a promise written in bitumen and anticipation. After twenty-five days of clinical confinement for Anth and Torrin, our bodies craved wilderness with an intensity that transformed each kilometre into healing balm. The road unwound through changing landscapes—suburban surrender to rural release, farmland flowing into forest, until finally we crossed that invisible threshold where civilisation's grip loosened and wild Australia reclaimed its ancient authority.

As we entered the national park proper, a modest sign indicated a wildlife encounter walk—just two kilometres promising intimate observation of the Prom's inhabitants. The brevity appealed after our long drive, offering perfect introduction to this landscape before committing to camp setup. We stretched travel-stiff muscles and set off along the well-formed path, unprepared for the drama about to unfold.

Almost immediately, two emus materialised from the scrub, their prehistoric forms grazing with complete indifference to our presence. These enormous birds, standing taller than any of us, continued their methodical feeding as we watched transfixed—the casual proximity to such magnificent creatures setting the tone for what this wilderness might offer. Their feathers ruffled in the coastal breeze, creating subtle waves across their grey-brown plumage while ancient eyes acknowledged us without concern.

Further along the track, Torrin spotted movement near the path's edge—a small native pobblebonk frog struggling with obvious distress. The amphibian's movements were laboured, uncoordinated, clearly indicating some form of injury. Torrin, with the gentle concern that characterised his interaction with all creatures, carefully lifted the tiny frog to move it from harm's way.

"Poor little guy," he murmured, cradling it in his palms. "Something's definitely wrong."

As we stood examining the frog's condition, Anth's sharp intake of breath froze us all. His voice, deliberately calm but carrying unmistakable urgency, cut through the moment: "Sal, don't move. Stay perfectly calm. There's a brown snake behind you."

The words triggered primal fear that Sal fought to control, her body rigid with the effort of remaining motionless. Every instinct screamed flight, but she trusted Anth's expertise—both he and Torrin had kept snakes as pets years ago, understanding their behaviour with intimacy most people never achieved. She didn't turn, didn't look, just focused on breathing while her heart hammered against her ribs.

"It's okay," Anth continued in that same measured tone, watching the serpent's approach. "He's not interested in you."

The realisation came simultaneously to Anth and Torrin—the snake wasn't randomly wandering but actively hunting. Its tongue flicked rapidly, tasting air for the scent trail of escaped prey. The frog's injuries suddenly made terrible sense: not disease but venom, a strike that had connected but hadn't immediately immobilised its victim.

At that precise moment, as if understanding its fate, the little frog rolled onto its back in Torrin's hands and expired—life departing with timing that felt orchestrated by nature's harsh choreography. Torrin, processing the situation with remarkable composure, carefully placed the deceased frog on the path well away from Sal's position.

"Your dinner's here, mate," he said quietly to the snake, his voice carrying respect rather than fear.

Sal had already begun moving slowly down the path, each step measured and deliberate until safe distance allowed her to finally release the breath she'd been holding. Her hands trembled as adrenaline flooded through her system, the delayed fear response arriving with overwhelming intensity. Anth and Torrin squatted down and watched the brown snake locate its meal and begin the slow process of consumption, nature's cycle completing with indifference to human observation.

"That was..." Sal paused, searching for words while her nervous system recalibrated. "I've never been that close to a brown snake. Never want to be again."

"Once in a lifetime encounter," Anth assured her, though his own relief was evident. "The odds of seeing predator and prey intersect like that—it's extraordinary, even if terrifying."

We continued along the path with heightened awareness, every rustling leaf now carrying potential threat. Yet the adrenaline-charged encounter had somehow sharpened our appreciation for the Prom's wild authenticity. This wasn't sanitised nature but the real thing—dangerous, unpredictable, operating according to ancient rules that preceded and would outlast human presence.

The walk's conclusion brought gentler reward—Torrin's first ever wild wombat sighting. The solid marsupial grazed peacefully near the track's end, its presence feeling like nature's apology for the earlier drama. Torrin's excitement at this inaugural wombat encounter provided perfect emotional counterpoint to the intensity of the snake incident, his joy unmarred by the earlier tension.

"Finally!" he exclaimed, watching the wombat's methodical grazing. "I was beginning to think I'd never see one."

Returning to our vehicle, we carried the weight of genuine wilderness encounter—not the managed experiences of wildlife parks but raw nature revealing itself without filter or safety net. The Prom had announced itself not with gentle welcome but with vivid demonstration of its authentic wildness.

"It's like Freycinet," Sal breathed as we continued into the park, the comparison springing unbidden from memory. Indeed, the Prom carried echoes of that beloved Tasmanian sanctuary—granite mountains plunging into turquoise waters, pristine beaches accessible only by foot, the particular magic that comes when land and sea conduct their eternal conversation. Yet this mainland cousin possessed its own distinct personality, broader in scale if not in intimacy, wearing its wilderness with confident rather than secretive grace.

Our winter gambit proved inspired. Where summer would have brought thousands of visitors transforming paradise into parade, we found instead blessed solitude. The camping area spread before us with abundant choice, most sites standing empty like invitations to private communion with this extraordinary landscape. We navigated toward our pre-booked position—selected online for its perfect balance of solar exposure and hammock-suitable trees—only to discover it occupied by day-trippers who had claimed the prime real estate with casual presumption.

"No worries," they assured us cheerfully when we explained our booking, already beginning to pack their temporary setup. "Plenty of other spots, but this one just looked too good to pass up."

Their gracious relocation allowed us to claim our carefully chosen territory, and we soon understood their attraction. The site offered everything we'd hoped—level ground for the bus, unobstructed northern exposure for our solar panels, and perfectly spaced eucalypts that seemed designed specifically for Torrin's hammock dreams. As we settled into position, the Prom began revealing its particular generosity.

Wildlife appeared with startling abundance. Within our first hour, we'd counted more wombats than our entire eighteen months in Tasmania had provided—these mainland marsupials apparently operating under different rules of human avoidance. They trundled through camp with proprietorial confidence, their solid forms and determined waddle suggesting we were guests in their domain rather than the reverse.

"Look at that unit," Torrin exclaimed as a particularly robust specimen investigated our camp perimeter. "He's built like a furry tank."

The unexpected luxury of hot showers—available every day at the campground facilities—felt almost decadent after months of bush bathing and occasional laundromat ablutions. We indulged with guilty pleasure, the consistent availability of heated water transforming our usual quick rinses into proper cleansing rituals. This small civilised comfort within wilderness setting created perfect balance, allowing us to explore muddy trails and sandy beaches knowing warm water awaited our return.

While Torrin strung his hammock with practiced efficiency, transforming air between trees into bedroom, Anth set off to explore the broader campground. His reconnaissance revealed a paradise largely unshared—perhaps a dozen other camps scattered across an area designed for hundreds, each maintaining respectful distance in this winter gift of space. We had achieved that perfect balance: infrastructure when needed, solitude when desired.

Our first night passed in peaceful symphony—waves providing bass notes from nearby Tidal River, nocturnal creatures adding percussion and melody. The wombats continued their evening patrol, their snuffling investigations occasionally punctuated by the crash of overturned rubbish bins as they sought unguarded treasures. We slept deeply, bodies remembering what true rest felt like after weeks of artificial schedules.

Morning brought exploration in earnest. The Tidal River Circuit beckoned as perfect introduction—six kilometres of gentle wandering departing directly from camp. However, infrastructure limitations immediately presented themselves: the bridge connecting campground to trail stood closed for repairs, its absent span creating a gap that seemed to mock our hiking ambitions.

"Right," Anth declared, surveying the shallow but persistent flow of Tidal River. "Shoes off. Time for some old-fashioned river crossing."

What followed was comedy wrapped in practicality. Anth, establishing himself as human ferry service, carried first Torrin then Sal across the cold flow, his bare feet finding purchase on the sandy bottom while his passengers clung like oversized backpacks. The crossing accomplished with only minor stumbling and major laughter, we continued onto the trail proper, wet feet quickly forgotten in the joy of movement through pristine landscape.

The circuit delivered everything hoped—coastal views that stole breath, forest sections providing intimate contrast, and enough geocaches hidden along the route to satisfy Anth's treasure-hunting instincts. Each vista seemed designed to remind us why we'd craved these wild places during our confinement, why wilderness served as antidote to artificial existence. Six kilometres passed in what felt like moments, our bodies reawakening to their natural purpose.

The return crossing proved equally entertaining, Anth resuming his ferry duties with theatrical gallantry while we documented his efforts for future hilarity. Back in camp, we discovered our absence had been noted by the local wildlife committee. Crimson Rosellas had established a welcoming party of extraordinary boldness—these brilliant red parrots displaying none of the wariness we'd grown accustomed to in Tasmania. They landed on our shoulders, investigated our pockets, and when we made the mistake of leaving the bus door open, conducted thorough interior inspections seeking contributions to their dietary requirements.

"They're like feathered pirates," Sal laughed as one particularly brazen individual emerged from our bus carrying a piece of bread nearly its own size.

Galahs provided pink-and-grey accompaniment to the red rosella symphony, while Pacific Gulls strutted through camp with dinosaur authority. This abundance of trusting wildlife created a magical atmosphere where the boundaries between human and natural worlds seemed deliberately blurred.

Late afternoon brought official intrusion in the form of Bailey, a ranger whose friendly demeanour softened the blow of regulatory enforcement. His extended chat covered everything from weather patterns to wildlife behaviour before arriving at his actual purpose—informing us that securing items to trees, specifically Torrin's hammock, violated park regulations designed to protect vegetation from rope damage.

"Sorry, mate," Bailey concluded with genuine sympathy. "I know it's the perfect setup, but rules are rules."

Torrin accepted the verdict with good grace, though disappointment coloured his movements as he unstrung his aerial bedroom and erected the ground-based tent instead. This forced transition from hammock to tent would prove fortuitous, though we didn't yet know how dramatically.

The wombat's nocturnal visit went completely undetected until Torrin prepared for bed. His headlamp illuminated unexpected destruction—the tent's outer fly pushed aside and the mesh inner bearing a wombat-sized tear that rendered it essentially useless as insect protection. Whether drawn by phantom food scents or simple curiosity, our marsupial visitor had created its own entrance with characteristic determination.

"You've got to be kidding me," Torrin groaned, surveying the damage by headlamp. "One night on the ground and I'm already under siege."

Makeshift repairs using tent pegs to pin the torn fabric closed provided psychological more than practical protection. Torrin spent a fitful night starting at every sound, convinced each rustle heralded the wombat's return for round two. His sleep-deprived state the following morning influenced our hiking plans—when we proposed the Mt Oberon ascent, he opted for bus-based recovery rather than mountain conquest.

Sal and Anth tackled Mt Oberon as a duo, the well-formed trail ascending through varied vegetation zones toward promised summit views. The absence of Torrin's usual commentary created different hiking dynamic—quieter but equally companionable, our established rhythm needing no words. The mountain, though modest by Tasmanian standards, provided honest workout for legs grown lazy during confinement.

The summit delivered spectacular compensation for effort. The entire Prom spread beneath us like a three-dimensional map—granite mountains, pristine beaches, the endless ocean stretching toward Antarctic horizons. We stood in wind-whipped silence, absorbing views that seemed to encompass all of coastal Australia's magnificence compressed into one panoramic moment.

"The descent road's designed for vehicles," Anth noted, studying our options. "Fancy a run?"

The joyful abandon of running downhill on smooth dirt road provided perfect counterpoint to the measured ascent. We flew rather than ran, gravity and gradient combining to create that particular euphoria that comes from bodies remembering their capacity for effortless movement. Breathless and grinning, we arrived back at the bus and the now sleeping Torrin. We continued to Squeaky Beach—named for the distinctive sound created by walking on its pure quartz sand.

Here, nature provided unexpected finale. Sal spotted it first—a dark form breaking the ocean's surface perhaps two hundred metres offshore. The whale breached once, its massive body defying gravity in magnificent display before crashing back into its element. Anth caught only the distinctive spout of expelled breath, but even this glimpse felt like benediction. We waited hopefully for encore performance, but the ocean had returned to its secretive ways, hiding its largest inhabitants beneath deceptively empty surface.

Rain arrived overnight, providing excuse for a rest day that Torrin desperately needed. We spent the hours in gentle camp activities—reading, planning future routes, watching wildlife navigate the weather with considerably more grace than humans. The wombats continued their patrols, apparently unbothered by precipitation, while we remained gratefully dry within our wheeled sanctuary.

Our final Prom adventure targeted Mt Bishop, a summit promising different perspectives on this remarkable landscape. This time Torrin joined the expedition, determined not to miss another highlight despite his accumulated exhaustion. The trail wound upward through fire-regenerating forest, the recent burn scars still evident but softened by enthusiastic regrowth.

A kilometre from the summit, Torrin reached his limit. The combination of disrupted sleep and general weariness had depleted his reserves, and he made the mature decision to wait while we completed the ascent. We left him in a comfortable spot with water and snacks, promising swift return.

Mt Bishop's summit provided rewards that justified every step. If possible, these views surpassed even Mt Oberon's grandeur—the angle revealing hidden bays, secret beaches, and the true scale of the Prom's wilderness. We lingered only briefly, conscious of Torrin waiting below, but those moments imprinted themselves indelibly: the wind-sculpted summit, the endless ocean, the profound satisfaction of standing atop something climbed by choice rather than obligation.

Our descent and reunion with Torrin marked the end of our Prom adventures. That evening, we packed with particular care, each item secured for the long drive ahead. Tomorrow would return us to Melbourne's embrace, to medical appointments and urban necessities. But tonight belonged still to wilderness—to the wombats conducting their eternal patrols, the waves maintaining their rhythm against granite shores, the mountains standing patient guard over this precious sanctuary.

Dawn came too soon, bringing with it the inevitable return to civilisation. As we drove out through the park gates, each of us carried private galleries of memory: Torrin's tent-destroying wombat, the whale's magnificent breach, sunset from mountain summits, crimson rosellas bold as pirates. The Prom had provided exactly what we'd needed—not just physical wilderness after confinement, but reminder of why we'd chosen this nomadic existence in the first place.

The road to Melbourne stretched ahead with its burden of obligation, but we drove it differently than we might have weeks before. We were recharged, renewed, carrying within us the wild energy of mountains climbed and beaches walked. The clinical facility awaited with its final assessments, but it no longer felt like imprisonment approaching. It was simply another waypoint on a journey that had already taken us to extraordinary places and promised infinite more beyond the horizon.

Wilson's Promontory had given us its gifts generously—wildlife encounters beyond expectation, summit views worth every breathless step, the particular magic that comes when landscape and timing align perfectly. As the Prom receded in our mirrors, we knew with certainty we would return. Some places visit you as much as you visit them, leaving marks on your internal geography that no distance can erase. The Prom had become one of those places, its wild song now part of our travelling soundtrack, its mountains and beaches forever calling us back to remembrance of what freedom feels like when worn honestly against skin and soul.Read more