It’s always easier starting the journey, than it is starting the documentation of the journey.

How to express the beginning of an adventure of this calibre in any way not remotely cliché is an art form, but in true fact it remains nothing short of an idealistic reality.

Fletcher and I had returned onto the road one year later, to re-create what was the trip of a lifetime once more, for a longer period of time, in Australia’s most picturesque of landscape, Van Diemen’s Land, Tasmania.

We wake inner city neighbours starting our motorbikes just after sunrise to head to the Spirit Of Tasmania, in which we would sit, yet stand out like aliens amongst the bustle of wealthy clean-cut Christmas travellers.

We are more prepared this time, and no sense of unfamiliarity or nervousness play precedent on our horizon. We packed lighter, only carrying what we really needed, and when you’re willing to simplify, what you ‘need’ becomes very little.

Living out of a small pack for 18 days may seem unsettling for some, but for others, its is freedom and for us it is the only way to achieve what we have set out to do; to live.

The Spirit of Tasmania is a gruelling, seasickness inducing 11-hour journey. Travelling by boat was far from what we came to do, but something we were forced to endure regardless. After testing patience, we arrive into Devonport and hop on our bikes to head straight toward Narawntapu in last light.

The signs warn us about one species to be wary about during the dusk to dawn hours, but many other species show their presence.

There was: Kangaroos, Wallabies, Poteroos, Pademelons along with birdlife, too numerous to name without showing preference. A 40-minute ride to begin our trip led us to a beachside camp spot near Baker’s Point.

We arrived in the Park after the office hours and left before their opening allowing us to neglect the compulsory camping fee.

We made curry, rolled a joint with the weed we got past forewarned sniffer dogs and watched the day pass and the Tasmanian breeze roll in.

This trip was to be a lot colder than trips past, but that is to be expected with out chosen destination. We left with the sunrise, the tradies ‘torment’ but this, this was the first time I will not have a trade to return to, for this trip marks the beginning of my unemployment.

The first rise of sun causes long shadows and I see the silhouette of myself on my packed bike race alongside the road. The imagery is enough to inspire in itself, let alone the rush of the cool air upon my face and the small portion of skin showing between my leathers.

The roads here are smooth, yet wind like the movement of the snakes. We are warned to take corners slowly, before the corners take us, and even though we were graced with the words of Ryder the Eagles; ‘Die On My Bike’ before leaving, I pay the corners respect, for although I do not have work to return to, this is the first time in a long time, I have something greater to live for.

It is only early on, and I miss her, but this trip is duty, this is manhood, this is to make me better, it is essential.

The intended travel distances are shorter than previous motorcycle rides, allowing for spontaneity and more time for observation. We arrived to camp on day two with still plenty of the day remaining.

With lunch yet to be made, we have a beer, and I bathe in the close to freezing, ocean.

The Tasmanian wind turns into a hazard whilst on a motorcycle and a highway, yet we still make better time than expected.

Our ‘two pie a day’ habit, which we coined on the last trip, has returned with vengeance, a Chicken and Camembert pie serving as breakfast.

At the arrival to our campsite it dawns on us that it is in fact, Christmas Eve, in which we’d spend the night at Rocky Cape, with the intention to head to Cape Grim, to breathe what is rumoured to be the freshest air in the world, for the day of Christmas.

The afternoon of our Christmas Eve passed with the summiting of the closest mountain. The water, from the vista point was bluer than eyes, yet more trustworthy. The wind is pleasant although harsh at times, and needed to take the bite of the Australian sun.

Both our bikes are running well, along with our bodies holding up so far. At this stage of the trip I endeavour to eat more fresh food whilst over here, a shame to not try some of the produce so commonly raved about.

Our water consumption has been very little, my awareness of that more noticeable from a pressing headache. The water is calm, it is still and I am encouraged by it, to be the same. My mother grew up in these parts we now explore, and it no longer remains a mystery why living in a beautiful landscape is so pivotal for her.

It is amazing here, the towns built upon natural wonderland, which seem to span the entirety of this island.

The cool change kicks in early, and the light never seems quite as bright as the mainland.

The ‘Tasmanian Summer’ forces all tourists to rug up at 4pm if not earlier.

The morning of day 3 began with summiting the ‘Nut’, in Stanley (what is, in my opinion, Australia’s most beautiful town) whilst also claiming the colloquial term for circumnavigating Tasmania as the ‘Little Lap’.

Smithton played home as a breakfast destination; which included two meat pies, along with extras to take away for a later lunch.

The day led into a little bit more of an extensive ride, helping us re live the ‘pain in the arse’ rides we lived through whilst travelling through South Australia, exactly one year ago.

The highlight of our scenic detours being the sinkholes, along with the walks to see them, which ogled Tasmania’s diversity in landscapes within small distances.

Upon arriving into the Tarkine rainforest, we were greeted by our first ever, (and not just in this trip) sighting of a Tasmanian Devil in the wild. What a Christmas gift!

We slowly set up camp alongside Rapid River and drink more Tasmanian made beer, this time Cascade Draught, a more pleasant choice than last night’s Boags XXX Ale.

I bathed in Rapid River, twice, whilst Fletchers nonchalantly neglected the ideal of cleanliness whilst camping.

We had left camp again at sunrise, and passed a Parks Ranger on our exit, only closely avoiding the camping fee this time. It is interesting how many people are alone on Christmas day; it seems more than any other day, many travelling, and many escaping the rush, others, trying to avoid loneliness.

A headache had bed ridden me at 7.30pm which I linked to the Tobacco in the joints we’d smoked, so it was a relief when Fletcher said he’d decided to get rid of our remaining weed, allowing for nature to provide the highs for our remainder out here. The wind burn on those small potions of exposed skin have established on my face, making the regular removal of my helmet as less than desirable experience.

Hearing that the river I’d bathed in was also home to the largest freshwater crayfish in the world, made me ever thankful for the ten toes still upon my feet.

There are many ways to describe the landscape that we travelled through today, tranquil being one that would not be reputed, but exciting another adjective two men on motorbikes would add.

The roads leading into the Tarkine are smooth, yet twist and turn, not dissimilar to the baby moray eel we’d seen yesterday, which proves for a lot of fun on a motorcycle and at points we doubled the recommended speed for the area.

The afternoon would pass by the fire, playing cards, listening to music and drinking the remainder of our beers, making a Merry Christmas indeed.

Day four has ended in the most beautiful of ways, a swim and Uno at the beach in Trial Harbour. We struggled through the scenic yet perilous ‘Road to Nowhere’ from Smithton to Corina. If this is being read by a ‘bucket list’ writing lad or lass, put travelling that road as the next number.

We camped at the place in which we’d sighted the Tasmanian Devil hoping to see another as the day turned to dusk or the night turned to dawn but there was no such luck.

The next morning consisted of packing up a little later than usual, making porridge and walking the two closest hiking tracks.

By mid morning we were deep into dirt roads and on high alert, the gravel slipping beneath our tyres as we tired.

We arrived into Corina after about 90km of dirt road, where a meat pie consolidated the concentration-induced lethargy.

After crossing the river on a ferry named ‘The Fat Man’ we continued on toward the nearest supermarket and grabbed supplies. (For me, this was finally some fresh fruit, which I’d been craving since our arrival)

Tasmanians area friendly bunch, which was proved by elongated conversations, that led into us being referred to as ‘Adventurous Mainlanders’ on multiple occasions. A sighting of the cops in the Tarkine encouraged a speedy exit, with a few elements of Fletchers bike no longer abiding with the roadworthy laws.

Zeehan hosted home to some kids challenging any other town for the most unruly bogan upbringing award, which provided entertainment, along with the suggestion of riding a Kawasaki Ninja in replacement of our steeds, questioning of our penis size, amongst many other questions proving the general IQ to be similar to the mango I was eating.

The nerve of these kids was a lot brighter than their future as they pulled on our throttles as we were trying to leave.

Having to double check our possessions were still close by, we then rode to our campsite for a very different series of encounters.

We spent the afternoon talking to the few locals, and many visitors, of Trial Harbour, who mostly proved we were not too dissimilar to others choosing to reside here for summer.

James Boag’s Draught continued our Tasmanian beer only drinking goal, going down smoothly in what might be Tassie’s hottest day of the year.

What was arguably the hottest day led into most certainly the roughest night, we’d ever camped amongst. The blowing over of our tent at 4am meant very little sleep especially as we hadn’t settled til 1am after meeting some New Zealand girls who played cards with us late into the night.

One of the towns dog, a small black Labrador came to our aid and spent the rest of the morning with us on the beach. It’d risen with the storm and killed a wallaby at sunrise.

We ventured through the treacherous 20kms of dirt road not too much later and onto the tarmac back into Zeehan for some breakfast.

Without wasting too much time talking to the Zeehan locals, who were indeed motorcycle enthusiasts, we headed into Strahan where we intended to waste the day sightseeing, then later spend the night at a free campsite about 15km out of town.

We were well and truly in the rhythm by now, packing up and leaving all routine even in the harsh conditions.

We had become so accustomed to the camping lifestyle that we opted to camp even though Strahan may well be our only chance of staying in somewhat affordable accommodation.

More pies were consumed, and even though the days seemed long, we reflected on how fast the trip had rushed by so far. It’s the end of day five and I feel alive. We saw the second snake along with a native bumblebee, which had the potential to be mistaken as a small bird given its large size.

Strahan didn’t host too much entertainment so I walked to the closest hiking track whilst fletcher rested, followed by grabbing supplies and heading to somewhere more scenic than what was on offer at Strahan.

Macquarie Heads was the chosen destination and our campsite would give any past one a run for their money. We continued the Tasmanian beer drinking goals and enjoyed a Cascade Lager. Macquarie’s estuary acted as a bath for the pair of us, giving some of the dirt and sweat from the last five days, a clean slate to re-fester.

The bikes are running well with no issues surfacing on either of our steeds, we continue to push their ability, whilst also pushing ours. It seems generous to think we are almost a third through our trip, yet I feel fulfilment from what we’ve been blessed to see.

I feel at home here now, I miss my lady none the less.

There is not much more that nature can’t provide. Her love; the only thing beyond this and with both, there becomes bliss, and I do not deserve such a thing.

Fletcher’s music tastes have been impeccable which has only heightened an already exceeding morale. I am eternally thankful to the earth, to safety, to nature’s ebbs and flows and its hospitality to us. Nature will make you feel lucky to be alive if you will let it. I feel fonder toward my motorcycle each day, to experience these things with a machine can give it personality, loveable characteristics.

We will sleep well tonight as the dream shall continue, throughout tomorrow, day six, and until we return.

A sleep with some patchy rain led into the first of our rain filled mornings. We emanated the Olympic curlers trajectory as we slowly glided along the rain-capped tar from Strahan to Queenstown. Queenstown was nice, real nice; proving we shouldn’t always listen to the locals who said it was just an old, dirty mining town. And although that might be somewhat correct, they had forgotten to mention it was located in the valley of some lovely mountains.

Fletcher’s review of the day (although aided by the misdirection of potentially one too many pints of Boags) was: today was the greatest day of the trip thus far.

We completed three short walks, passed over suspension bridges, followed the coast, ate lunch beside a river, passed countless mountains, and ate a pub meal, camped alongside the Derwent River with a fire, beers and country music. To argue with Fletchers review would be as similar to spit into the face of luxury.

Another free campsite was positive after a realisation of how much we’d both spent on this trip so far. A few less beers might help the pocket for the remaining fortnight. I’ve shot a lot of film, another thing I might have to be conscious about to let the rolls I packed last the trip.

Our first encounter that proved Tasmanians aren’t all nice humans happened on the road with a van too busy to get to the middle of nowhere, but a walk to a completely fogged lookout where our ability to lookout was restricted to only a few metres sent that encounter to the back of the brain. We bumped into a tour group of about 20 people on one of the hikes, all who had seen us get off our bikes. Their envy on their faces and in our conversation was all too evident and a good reminder of just how lucky we are to be doing what we are.

A passing through of Gormanstown got us inspired to buy a property out here as a restoration project. Gormanstown was an abandoned town with interesting structures that have likely only recently been re-inhabited.

A motorbike is a talking point, but motorbikes like ours are a gateway into strangers past, riding similar bikes or stranger’s hopes for the future, to be doing something similar.

Well, after one week in, my only advice to you, the reader, is to make that future the present. A week into the trip and today has to have been my favourite. South American-esque landscapes paved our peripheral for the majority of our time in the saddle. We elongated a few hundred kilometres into over 8 hours of riding taking every detour along the way. A wall, hand carved by a craftsman in over a decade, Australia’s biggest dam, as well as the worlds tallest trees, an echidna, hand painted signs hundreds of kilometres from anything else, and an old hydro settlement were a few things from todays still holding cells within the prison of my brain.

More than a couple of pies added to what was already the worst farts I’ve ever smelt only encouraged Fletcher’s digestion. We finished the day with 100km in of the 100km in/100km out route that lead to Strath Gordon. We were the only ones willing to camp out here. The campground at the highest point of the town overlooking the mountains and lake is worth millions more than the luxury lodges also providing accommodation. I claimed victor for the first time in billiards, Fletcher still with a lead that I doubt I’ll catch.

My body feels tired now, eyes falling closed and open like the days that have passed.

Tomorrow we will shower, 8 days without seems like the right amount of time, not for us, but more for anyone we may pass. Elevation greater than any day previously played a large role in the separation of the micro climates here, from the open plains with warm winds, to the shadowed fern forests with the cool breeze making mountains on our skin to match those than envelop us so comfortably. An abundance of berries I’d bought at a berry farm bled their way through my bags and onto my fully white riding attire, which now hosted the memory of the many dirt and ochres we’d passed, sat or slept upon.

The Gordon dam bred adventure, rule breaking and vertigo. The sheer height and slope from the viewing platform was enough to make one giddy let alone with the added height we’d experienced after climbing over one of the closed gates toward a ladder that extended to the summit.

Rain clouds poured in over our campsite and we begged whoever would listen that the clouds passing would eventuate. We err on the side of positivity instead of inevitability when it comes to our safety and comfort.

Day 8 ended in a contrast of reality; from our painfully freezing morning escape from Strath Gordon in the bucketing rain and hammering wind, to our first night indoors.

We’d barely slept through the heavy rain that pelted on our tent like bullets in a war zone. The sounds like a work site as we tried our best to imagine we were elsewhere. After hearing a small break in the rain we used the chance to quickly set up camp and find the nearest shelter, which was over 100km away. We travelled about 80km then both needed to stop; in denial we’d survived through such excruciating chills.

The sun showed itself and we bowed in its warmth aware if how fleeting it may be. It took 10 minutes to regain feeling in our hands and legs before continuing onto Maydeena for a breakfast quiche and pie, respectively.

The day of riding didn’t get much better, but we knew what Hobart held in store for us so we continued taking very little rest until our arrival. Hobart boasted a real bed, a washing machine, what was to be a hot shower (before Fletcher used all the hot water), but a shower none the less, and shelter.

Hannah and Scoot, some family/friends of ours were generous enough to host us in our smelly state, and oxymoron in their lovely home.

We rested for the afternoon and regained somewhat of a respectable manner before heading into the city to get burgers and no doubt enjoy more conversations with strangers over our motorcycles.

Day 9 we stayed in Hobart, there is little adventure in city living, so I will mention only one thing: Fletcher made a breakfast to top any meal we’d either bought or made so far. Poached eggs with hollandaise and potatoes, and a salad was the menu. We will relax amongst the city for the rest of the day and rejuvenate for 9 more days of riding.

What a way to bring in the New Year!

After wasting the majority of the day in relaxation, we spent the night with friends alongside the Hobart waterfront. At about 10pm, our friends went their respective ways leaving us to our own devices and we took that time to drink as many beers as humanly possible before 2018 struck.

Post that, we stumbled home, feeling sorry for ourselves at 2.30am after long drunken talks about marrying our girlfriends and being dads one day.

New Years day was a belated rise, and a hangover presented itself quite prominently. We ditched some of our gear and packed lighter as we had a long hike to our campsite. It had probably become midday before we readied ourselves and set out on the road, well fed thanks to the generosity of our hosts. It began to drizzle within half an hour of riding, and our wet weather gear was one of the things we’d left to keep our packs light. We’d survived rains many a time this trip, so we soldiered on toward the most southern point in Australia, which also highlighted itself for presenting some of the worlds cleanest air, a fitting ritual all should undertake to start what was to be; 2018.

To get to South Cape, we had to walk a visually pleasant, but a hung-over battle of 8km from Copple Creek to South Cape. The pack was heavy and two hours of walking seemed like a greater time than 120 minutes. The most southern point in Australia is rough. It is unwelcoming yet powerful; and exciting. It is a contrast to the greetings we receive in every small town we enter, which are overly welcoming yet extend into elongated conversations about very little.

If you’ve read this re-cap from when I first mentioned adding a box to tick to your bucket list, South Cape is most certainly another. We looked for souvenirs whilst awed over the size of the waves and tested our strengths by shot-putting rocks, to which I took the podium. We saw very few people out there, which only exaggerated its particularly otherworldly characteristics. We’d hoped we would get a good glimpse of the Aurora Australis, but the clouds made it inevitably dull, but you can’t ask much more from Tasmania.

Day 11 was today; I only knew that from this journaling. We are unaware whether it is a Tuesday or a Sunday, and we certainly wouldn’t have known the date given we hadn’t just seen in the New Year. Today brought with it many things we’d become accustomed to: meat pies, adventure, walking, riding and…rain. My desire to live out here is only somewhat dissipating as the rain falls, but we are yet to experience this wilderness in winter. We began the day with the walk out back to where we’d let our bikes sleep for the night. It was nice to camp once more after spending two nights in a bed, I’d began to long for the great outdoors once more.

The hike was a little quicker this time, as we walked fast and spoke little. We consumed two days worth of porridge once returning to our bikes; happy to see they had not been tampered with by anyone camping nearby. We were forced to ride about 20km slower than the assigned speed for the majority of the day lingering to the tail of the campervans who would be returning home from their New Year’s celebrations in the bush.

After the long day of riding we arrived at the Bruny Island ferry, where the thought of travelling by boat made me seasick. Once arriving at Bruny, we rode to the neck and read about the tragedy of Truganini, and felt deep shame in our European roots and our colouring.

Although this land feels like home, it is only that because of the brutality of those before us, and we do by no means know, nor own this land.

The rains hit heavier after visiting the neck, so we added the lighthouse viewing to our already extensively long list of things ‘to do’ tomorrow and headed straight to our campsite. Shelter was limited here so we did our best to get warm and set up camp. Our most impressive Trangia campsite meal of Kransky, Mash, Gravy, Peas and Carrots made two almost miserable men, chirpy once again. We spent the night trying to warm up, and having close encounters with the many animals of these parts.

The realisation of one week to go dawned, and there was a feeling of excitement but also spliced with that of our return, when this lifestyle gets put on hold for another year.

The next day, now no longer numbered, we headed from our damp campsite along Fortescue Bay. We left Bruny Island and continued on toward Port Arthur. We’d become in sync with our riding, closing the small distance between the tail and headlight of the two bikes. Even I, had found that long winded compliments on my motorcycle had become taxing.

The sights along the East Coast were similar to that which we’d seen when travelling the West, although with the added element of gentrification, and easy accessibility. After seeing every sight along the way that didn’t require payment to access, which included the Tesselated Pavement, the Blow Hole and the Tasman Arch, we headed to camp, avoiding the camping fee once more.

Little did we know, what would soon be a major highlight of our trip was also camping at Fortescue Bay. After setting up camp quickly we headed toward the beach with a Jim Beam in hand, the Tasmanian beer drinking voyage quickly turning into something more commonplace.

The shoreline rock pools were littered with wildlife, teeming in the shallows we saw; molluscs, hermit crabs, urchins, starfish amongst the rainbow of sea life colours. Once our hunger escalated we withered back to campsite to be greeted by our camp neighbours, Jake and his girlfriend Alex.

They’d travelled from Sydney in a similarly long journey to spend 3 weeks in Tasmania. Afters spending the first 8 days walking the physically testing Overland Track, they’d settled to spend the remainder of their trip in the luxury of their Land Cruiser. We spent the night talking, drinking and playing Uno with Jake and Alex, and they were hospitable and welcoming. It was a relief to meet others our age tackling similar goals and leaving the city behind at this time of year. It was a breath of fresh air in our usual talks, with late retirees. We endeavoured to meet up with them again, hopefully whilst still on this trip, if not, on another trip in the future.

We rose early on the following day to avoid the Parks Ranger questioning us, or worse, starting conversation about our motorcycles, and Jake made us coffee for the road. We spent another hour of conversation with our newfound friends, and exchanged numbers and details on some motorcycle makes they could look into to travel in the same manner we did.

Maria Island was our set destination for what was likely day 13. To get to Triabunna, where the ferry would depart from, we had to face what was the worst dirt road of our time here. A heaven for pothole dwelling mammals, if there were such a thing, finally led us to Triabunna slowly but surely, barely stopping along the way except for a meeting with a friendly echidna who allowed me to pat them. We didn’t have long to wait once arriving to the Ferry so we parked our bikes and bought the exorbitantly priced ferry ticket toward Maria Island.

I was down to my last $150 with about 5 days to go, which meant for no more drinking till my return, as well as being wary of where every cent was going.

Maria Island was incredible, a wonderland, the closest thing to heaven on earth. We set up camp quickly in Darlington, on the island, and began the 5-hour return walk to Bishop & Clerk, the highest mountain on the island.

The walk started steady but quickly became gruelling yet empowering.

It’d been the hardest of the hikes we’d yet done, and we were pooling with sweat in any crevice our body would make.

The view was enough to make me feel the need to return here, to walk this track again, and sweat once more. We had swam in the cool, clear ocean before doing the walk and intended on doing so once we returned. It took us till dusk to get back to the turning point of return to camp. Fletcher opted for camp whilst I walked to Fossil Cliffs that was home to hundreds of wombats, and overwhelmingly (two rolls of film) exciting experience for me.

Fletcher napped the afternoon whilst I made tea then went for another walk hoping to see some Tasmanian Devils in the night. After walking for an hour with no luck, I returned to camp seeing two Tasmanian Devils near where we’d sleep, which made Maria Island, even more of an incredible place.

The Tassie Devils stayed around camp waking use up and giving us glimpses of them throughout the night in which we were there.

We’d bought tickets for the 11.15am return ferry back to Triabunna. It was about 9am by the time we’d had cold showers, breakfast and fully packed our gear away, so we opted for the 9.45am ferry back home as an alternative.

Today wasn’t too long of a ride, as we’d planned to walk for a few hours to our campsite in Wine Glass Bay. We passed some time in Swansea, which had been the most highly motorcycle trafficked area of here, and we quietly boasted together over how nice our motorcycles were alongside the sports bikes and other tourers.

Journaling has become taxing 15 days in as the fatigue of limited sleep has become ever present. We are still excited to be out here, and for a long portion of the ride today I pondered various potential methods of making this lifestyle simply ‘life’. I miss my lady more than I ever thought were possible. Her existential crisis’ text messages alarm me that she might be missing my relaxed presence too. I miss her touch, her smell, her cleanliness, her excitement, her awe, her weight upon me, her smile, her food, her generosity, her encouragement, and her beauty. I will return to Tassie with her. I see her here, in the landscape, I see her in the flora, and in the fauna. I see her in the individuality of the houses here. I see her in all the good that passes us.

We arrived in Wine Glass Bay, at the start of our walk, not long after lunch. We’d compressed the bags somewhat and left the excess in the a locker at the information centre.

In the car park there, we recognised a car we’d seen before. Jake and Alex’s Land Cruiser laid in a park likely leading to the same walk we were about to embark on.

Familiarity in an unfamiliar place is a strange thing when it is coincidence and we hoped coincidence would continue and we’d cross paths on the track with our new friends. The track was packed with tourists, us being no different, but we realised the slim chances of seeing Jake and Alex in an instant upon departure. We walked to the lookout, and then continued for another hour to the beach. As we approached the water, whom else would we see, but Jake and Alex sunbathing in the mild Tasmanian weather. It was probably preferable to the 47 degrees they would have experienced if still in the Northern Beaches of Syndey. They ever so kindly extended their arm of generosity once more allowing us to stay with them at the campsite they’d booked along Coles Bay.

After ticking off the Wineglass Bay walk, we decided there would be no better way to spend our night.

We chatted for hours about camping gear and kayak trips, about Super 8 and astronomy, of many thing interesting and very little that was dull.

We ate, we played Frisbee till it was too dark to keep doing so, then brought out Uno once more. We’d tentatively planned to see them in Mt William a few days on, but the surprise of seeing them earlier spruiked morale, back into overdrive.

We ate breakfast and drank coffee with Jake and Alex, then waited til 9am to pick up the bags we’d left at the information centre. Today, we had a detour planned to buy moccasins Fletcher had seen a man wearing in Zeehan. The leather shop was amazing, if it weren’t for my funds already being very low, they would have been after visiting it. We didn’t have too much further to ride to get to Ben Lomond National Park, so we took the scenic route along the dirt roads.

It was only 15km from our destination when disaster struck.

A clacking sound reverberated inside my motorcycle engine and quickly grew deafeningly loud. Alarm bells rang both metaphorically and in my head from ringing the loud clatter caused. We were at the turning point, in destination (between Launceston and Ben Lomond) but also a turning point in the trip, to continue or to can what was to come. To both of our dismay, and me feeling like I was entirely responsible, we opted to head to Launceston, get reception and try and find a mechanic to fix the problem in a short time frame.

Once arriving in Launceston, with the noise growing only louder, we called every mechanic in the town, but to no avail, for they were closed until Monday, two days later.

In desperation I messaged uncles, aunties and anyone I might vaguely know in the area.

The bad news continued to present itself in threes, with the only lead we’d received (a small engine enthusiast) having no idea what the issue could have been.

We slowly became more comfortable with the idea of cutting the trip shorter, and staying put in Launceston to further help would be available.

We could always return here, we both had the desire to do so anyway.

Fletcher had a work colleague who offered to host us in a house he was renovating on their property. It wasn’t electricity, it wasn’t lighting, it wasn’t hot showers, but it was shelter, so it was luxury.

We headed there riding my bike ever so slowly and unloaded our gear. Dave (the host) was welcoming and overly accommodating allowing us to swim in his pool, drink his beers and share dinner with his family and friends.

This bred much relief in a sad and stressful time.

We slept well and I prayed for an answer before we needed to head to Devonport to catch the Spirit of Tasmania home.

Our second day in Launceston was set to be relaxing. Dave’s friend from squash asked us to join in with them in Laser Tag to pass the morning. In the search for a mechanic an old soccer friend reached out asking whether I’d like to have a kick of the soccer ball and take my mind off things. I gladly accepted.

With no further leads, we resulted to waiting til Monday. Fletcher has planned on watching Star Wars the entirety of our trip so as he did that I walked into the city to see what was on offer. The walk was long, but nice.

Design Tasmania was one location I stumbled upon, a gallery showcasing the best of Tasmanian design, majoring in textiles and furniture then I continued on to the museum which re-ignited an age old desire to learn taxidermy.

I hadn’t eaten enough fresh food this trip so I searched around looking for a salad, but a pumpkin salad sandwich was the closest alternative.

My lost stumbling continued for another half hour into a craft beer brewery, where I tried a Green Curry beer, just as spicy as curry itself.

The familiarity in unfamiliar locations struck once more, when my cousins passed the window of the bar in which I was drowning my sorrows, and drinking alone.

He spent half an hour with me, inspiring me; to keep being me, and humbly mentioning his accolades, too numerous to count.

After finishing my beer, I tired to use my phone to return to where we were staying. Had it not have died, that would have worked, but I spent a further four hours walking toward where I thought it may have been until I found a landmark I remembered.

I realised the power of good architecture in that moment, if one can make a house so remarkable that it causes an imprint of those travelling by, it is not only a space, but also a bearing.

It made the potential 7 more years my love has to study to become an architect, seem more than worth it.

Once arriving home, I collapsed in exhaustion, slowly cooked dinner and charge my phone, and let the rest of the day pass. Once my phone was charged, I received a message from my sister-in-law with a potential lead. I sent a message and they agreed to look at the bike in the morning.

I am in high hopes I will be back on the road again soon, but for now the luxury of shelter eases the pain.

The mechanics had some good news, and some bad news, the good news was, my bike would be fine to ride on, the bad news, they couldn’t fix the problem without ordering parts. With the news we could ride on, Fletcher and I decided we’d continue. At that point of decision, Fletchers bike blew a carburettor, pointing signs that we’d seen all we should have. He couldn’t exceed 30km an hour so our next goal was to find someone willing to take us to Devonport tomorrow for our return.

That night I returned to the craft beer bar, where my cousin was performing. I got up on stage and performed a poem from my newest publication, to which a few people approached me and had conversations.

One of those people was John, a local teacher who also had an interest in motorbikes, as well as owning a Ute. He offered to take us the further 90km tomorrow and we very happily obliged, giving him the remainder of my money.

We had reached our final point with copious amounts of generosity, and we were thankful for all those who had shown it. My girlfriend thought I was still two days away, so the knowledge of surprising here passed the boat ride home quite quickly.

We arrived in Melbourne and I road straight back from the Spirit Of Tasmania to Geelong. About two km from home, I pass her, my love, and she jumps for joy with the surprise.

The road was kind, the weather brought with it, its peaks and its lows, it’s rains and its burns. To know freedom like that you feel after three weeks on a motorbike, it to understand life in a way nothing else can muster. The meaningless of life without generosity is overwhelming. The meaningless of life without adventure ever present in my mind once more.

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