It’s a well-honed habit, the final actions of a traveler who has done this a thousand times before. Pen out, one last entry scribbled in the journal that’s acted as silent companion during this portion of the journey.
Until then, I’ll placate myself through songs. For if there’s one thing every road trip needs, it’s a proper travel playlist. And an exploding Aussie music scene means the only thing more vast than the cross-country kilometers are the local musicians who sing about them.
Two heads. Webbed feet. Snaggle teeth. An assortment of unflattering body parts that supposedly separate inbred Tasmanians from the rest of Australia. However mercilessly the Mainlanders may laugh at the island, locals shrug it off with a stoic pioneer spirit. During my six months here, I’ve realized that they’ll gladly trade a little laughter in order to keep secret the paradise that is their home.
So this is what good luck tastes like. A clod of dirt caught between my front teeth, earthly particles burying my taste buds under the distinctive flavor of ground soil.
Lost means little when you’re halfway up a rock face, wedged furtively between towers of stone. Every surface looks the same from this angle; no map promises us stable footing.
My partner and I are chasing cairns to the top of Mount Parsons.
But my boyfriend, Hadyn, feels about fishing as I feel about traveling: that it is an act of passion, of reverence, which must be practiced as often as possible in order to feel a legendary moment of aliveness. Both activities share a pull that only the dedicated will ever understand.
“Penguin!” Hadyn shouts at every black and white bird on the horizon. Knowingly, he mistakes large gulls for the little local inhabitants that nest along Bicheno’s rocky shoreline. Someone has […]