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.
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.
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 […]
Neighbors could hold the sympathetic comments, like “Guess it’s what you grew up with,” and “Just have to make the most of it.” I hoped their beach barbeques broke down and their post-celebratory hangovers lasted through January.
Places have a way of changing history.
200 years ago, the chalice-shaped inlet of Wineglass Bay oozed with the blood of butchered whales, turning the peaceful waters into a glass of Merlot and invoking its descriptive name.