On the Road to Nowhere: The Chase of that Eternal Summer
“To live is so startling. It leaves but little room for other occupations.” - Emily Dickinson
***
“I don’t want to break anyone’s heart,” she assured him as she tiptoed her way into a love story.
“Oh! What a wonderful thing it is to have one’s heart broken. As long as it gets opened when it is broken” he said.
Then he added, “The best thing that could happen to a heart is to have it broken open by guess what: love and suffering.”
***
The third week of January, I arrived in Tasmania, or ‘Tassie’ as I got to call it. A term of endearment for an Australian island located off the southeastern coast of the country. If the compass continues to point south, the next piece of land to be reached is Antarctica, if west, Argentina.
‘Tasmania - Explore The Possibilities’ are the words embedded at the bottom of each license plate and her first piece of advice to me; words that were delivered the second I stepped out of the airport gates having arrived from New Zealand into the heat of the Tasmanian summer.
I could’ve went east, west, north or south. I had no plans for the next coming months or intentions of coming up with one. Tasmania however, seemed to have some things lined up for me.
“How long have you been in Australia?” I often was asked by the locals.
“I’m going on two months. But I haven’t been to the mainland. I’m going on two months. In Tassie only.”
“Two months here!?!”
“What have you been doing!?!”
“Exploring. Exploring the possibilities,” was my answer referring to the words inscribed on the vehicles’ plates.
I spent two months in Tasmania. Two months doing exactly what she encouraged me to do from our first balmy encounter.
hobart, first light.
After spending a week in Hobart, the capital of Tasmania, I set off to Bruny Island. The island is reached after pedaling thirty-seven kilometers - or twenty-two miles - south to the port town of Kettering, then taking a ferry. It would had taken me two hours to get to the port. It took me nearly three days to get there.
During my stay in Tassie, I continued to hear about how beautiful Bruny Island is. I only heard about it because I never saw it. I never made it there.
My travels to Bruny Island can be summed up with the words Emerson once wrote: “Life is a journey, not a destination.”
Setting off to Bruny, after getting lost on my way out of Hobart and having taken the steepest route available, I made it to a campground by sundown. That evening, I learned a few things about bows and arrows. Something that for years I’ve been curious about.
I have no desire to hunt for animals in the wild. But I do have a strong desire to understand the huntress in me; a primal behavior that in the past has had me hunting on the wrong prey: men and something I used to call love. Most times both intertwined. All times creating havoc in my life.
These days, I seem, and prefer, to be hunting wild islands, hills and craft beer. Most times all intertwined. All times creating havoc in my life. Or during the next morning at the very least.
After my first night of sleeping in the Tasmanian bush and falling asleep to the hops of the wallabies, I woke up to the scent of desert sage.
The same scent that filled the inside of my tent in times when I went back to the desert after moving away from it. Nights that were spent under the stars. Nights in which she tenderly held my body as I pressed it against her.
The same scent that accompanied me as I ran the desert trails during evening runs.
The same scent that for about fifteen minutes inexplicably filled the air of my first morning in the bush.
I searched for sage. I couldn’t find it.
Yes. This is where I need to be.
Certainly so. I was heading exactly towards where I needed to.
I was heading in the direction to nowhere.
The following day, and shortly after an afternoon downpour, I pitched the tent again.
That evening, I met two wise women, both in their early thirties and both traveling independently. They have been hitching rides around the world for three years. They met on the road two years ago, and have become close friends since. They continue to travel each on their own, and when possible they meet somewhere in the world. This time, they met in Tasmania. The day after, one was Nepal bound, the other one was headed to the mainland.
They asked me to join them for dinner.
Dinner turned into an evening long conversation which started with them sharing their experience of a Rainbow Family gathering they had attended days before.
I listened.
Soon and somehow, the conversation veered off.
I listened even closer.
Pay attention Frances, pay attention.
The conversation took a plunge right into the topics that for weeks, I’d been restless about. Matters I initially thought I had sorted out, yet they were creating much confusion in my head as of late - long term travels, budget, becoming a better human, life projects. Purpose. The underlying reasons about why we choose to leave, why we choose to return and when the right time to return is - if there is such a thing.
“Always ask yourself the reason why you started. Always go back to that reason. Let that be your guide in life when you question why you chose the path you are on,” they concluded.
The discussion finally opened up to fear. A fear I’d been battling with and turned into a powerful source of anxiety.
But fear of what? Fear of whom?
That night, I fell asleep to the ebb and flow of the ocean.
I woke up to a searing sun, shortly after, falling ill on the road as I made my way to the ferry. I reached out to a farming family who opens their home to traveling cyclists and they took me in for the night. I spent the rest of the day on their farm, resting and recovering inside a canvas tent from what seemed to have been a migraine.
I’m purging. This is not a migraine. I’m purging.
I fell asleep as I observed the wildlife go on about life while I pondered my own.
Morning came. I clipped on the panniers to my bicycle, expressed my appreciation and goodbyes to my hosts and instead of continuing to Bruny Island, I cycled back to Hobart.
Under the rain.
This road has taken me to where I needed to go.
I was granted from the world what I was in need of. It was time to return to where I came from.
I strive for depth instead of width as it relates to my intimate relationships.
Soon after I landed in New Zealand, I started seeking depth as much as I could. Whenever possible, extending my stay in places I connected with instead of bagging cities and town after town.
the beautiful nicoleta boii in all of her splendor.
My travels in Tassie allowed me to practice that. Depth. Not width.
After some time in Hobart, a bus dropped me off somewhere on the Tasman Peninsula and I was back in the bush.
I cycled the peninsula where I followed most of the convict trail. Tassie, because of its ruggedness was used as a natural jail, much of the island was a British Empire penal colony during the 1800’s.
The convicts were sent on a long journey from Britain by ship. The British trusted that the Tasmanian wilderness would deter prisoners from escaping. The stories crafted within the prison walls were ones of abuse, neglect and psychological torture.
“There is no worse punishment than robbing one’s freedom. Or one’s mind.” Unknown.
Some of them did escape. One of them even disguised himself as a kangaroo and tried hopping his way into freedom.
the beautiful nicoleta boii and her companion. tasman peninsula.
After cycling and hiking around the peninsula, I headed to Maria Island, another convict settlement that was built on a small island located off the eastern coast of Tasmania.
Maria Island is a natural wildlife sanctuary. The island receives many visitors but most of its residents are wombats, pademelons, kangaroos, wallabies, parrots and Tasmanian devils. The rest of Tasmania is populated by these in addition to poisonous snakes, spiders, platypus, quolls, echidnas, black swans, black cockatoos, currawongs, lizards and many others I didn’t get to see. Many times I wondered what else would be hidden in the island.
If one were to turn Tassie upside down, what would come out?
If I were to turn myself inside out, what would I see?
baby wombat in mother's pouch. maria island.
After hiking part of Maria Island, I continued my travels along the eastern coast heading north. I cycled and hiked the Freycinet Peninsula and walked out knowing much about ‘how not to pitch your tent before a wind storm.’
The road then took me to Bicheno, where I foraged wild berries from the beach, ate fish and chips - a ‘break the budget’ treat - and cut several inches off my hair.
From Bicheno, I cycled away as a woman with less curls, and towards a life of singlehood after seeing my own love story come to an end.
Two ways of lessening the load one can say.
With a final push towards St. Helens, a stay at the stunning Bay of Fires and the weekend filled with dips into the cold waters of the ocean, vast glowing skies, chocolate, books, a sand storm that almost blew my tent away and the companionship of two souls that brought calmness into my shaken soul, I wrapped up a month of cycling and tenting along the isolated eastern coastline of Tasmania.
bay of fires.
Traveling by bicycle can be seen as slow. It is so slow; it is in fact just a little faster than walking. The other morning two runners passed me by as I rode my loaded bicycle. That made me smile.
During this time, I observed the tide of the sea. It slowly comes, it slowly goes. It advances, it conforms, it retreats. Over and over again. As many times as it needs to.
Although I travel slowly, so much has been lived, thought, and felt since I left home, during my travels in New Zealand and Tasmania.
It was time to retreat. I decided it was time to go slower.
So I went for a walk. A long little walk.
Within a week, I was on a track in the middle of the Tasmanian western wilderness wearing hiking boots, a willing heart and carrying twenty kilos in my pack. A disproportionate amount of those kilos were chocolate. Carrying that much weight on my back never felt so good.
overland track. day one. cradle mountain.
This walk brought my time on the island to an end.
After so much pedaling, walking and several encounters with snakes, a few battles with possums in the middle of the night in an effort to defend my borrowed territory, or at least my rice, my tuna, my chocolate, and prevent the imminent hole in my tent, after a standoff with a forester kangaroo while riding my bicycle on a gravel road, and a hide-and-seek session with a spider the size of my right palm (not the left), I had an encounter with a heart.
Ah! It was then when I learned that this heart of mine had been cracked by no one else other than myself.
During that encounter, I also met with a dug-out wound. An old and deep down the heart wound that when it rots it stenches contaminating the air I breathe.
And the way I love.
My days in Tassie were not all idyllic nor all filled with downhill routes, peaceful sleeps, and marsupials.
There was the night when I arrived to the tent and found the tarp half gone and its contents soaked because the wind blew so strong and the rain seeped in.
Or that day where I had to decide which one to do: one) to pedal two) to vomit three) to do both.
There was another time when at two o’clock in the morning, three of us got up and held my tent against the wind hoping my shelter would not break.
There were many other evenings with no connection back home.
And then, there was that one hot afternoon after leaving Bicheno when the connection back home was lost. Lost for good.
There were even many more attempts of connecting into my being. Failing every time.
There were days in which deep isolation and fear tremored the yarns of this soul.
Those days were hard. Those days schooled me and some of those instances today, do make me smile.
Then, there were the many other days.
The very early mornings when I rushed out of my tent to the beach and waited for the sun to be seen on the horizon.
Many other days in which I celebrated with a shower, the possibility of washing my soiled clothes and brushing my teeth with running water.
There were the many instances when countless reasons to call this off were found, and there was the one instance, when the one reason why I didn’t was thought of, and why I still haven’t.
There were times when I peeked through the door of my tent and saw a wombat with her young tucked into her pouch making a patch of grass their evening meal. Or the night I caught a Tasmanian devil scurrying away.
There was the rain that poured cleansing away the tears from my face. The tears that come with the pain of growing up, of expanding, of rooting in. Of choosing to be aware, of choosing to feel instead of choosing to numb in.
The tears that come with living a dream. And the ones that come from surrendering to love.
Some days were spent in the company of two people that unbeknownst to them, held me during a period of confusion as I attempted to figure out the mess I made out of my heart.
lisa and stefan, two noble souls and kindred hearts i met in hobart. they cycled in se asia, tasmania and currently enjoying beautiful new zealand. bay of fires.
There were many evenings where the budget only allowed for a simple dish of rice and tinned fish.
And in that simplicity joy was found.
Many moments were filled with the kindness of individuals who allowed me in their homes, provided me food, a safe space to spend the night and their friendship.
There was a day when I was given enough food so I could stay additional days in the wild and summit the peak of a mountain. I could’ve stayed another week with all the food I was offered.
There were the mornings when upon rising by the beach, I was offered an espresso with milk. Or the cold morning that shortly after waking up in the rainforest, a cup of hot tea was delivered to the door of my tent.
And there was that late afternoon when I bathed in the lake after a hot day.
And the late morning when atop a waterfall, I soaked my naked body in the cold waters of the river and I watched as it washed the filth away from my skin.
There were the many hugs received.
Hard days are good teachers.
For those days, there is chocolate, friends and craft beer. And the shot of whisky that was poured out of a Nalgene bottle.
overland track. day six. two latinas in the wild. ana, a colombian living in australia and finishing her phd. finding a woman in the wild on her own is a rarity. much more, a woman in the wild on her own, who carries her own pack and her own darn fine whisky. And shares it with others.
But the other days teach me even more. Those are the days that teach me that of which I want to learn of.
They teach me love.
“Beautiful, it’s because moments like these, an experience like this, that your heart gets opened. And we grow. That’s how we learn to love...”
The words I once heard over the phone.
“If you want inner peace find it in solitude, not speed, and if you would find yourself, look to the land from which you came and to which you go.” - Steward Udall
On the track, other than the hut conversations during the mornings and evenings, and the occasional hiker passing me by, most of the time I was on my own.
Walking. Sitting. Feeling. Alone.
Yet in the wild, I’m never alone. In the wild, I’ve never been scared.
“Are you alone? Aren’t you scared?” are two questions that as a woman traveling solo I’m often asked.
Yes, I travel alone. Yes, there are times when I’m also scared.
But I’m not scared of bears and mountain lions. I’m not scared of snakes or spiders.
I’m not scared of getting hurt out there and not being able to take care of myself.
I’m not scared of any of that. I’m scared of others things.
I fear I will let my thoughts prevent me from doing what my soul needs to do.
I fear I will keep comfortable and safe.
I fear I will not allow my light be shared with others.
I fear the day in which I would walk into a rainforest and won’t notice the tall ancient pencil pines soaking in the rays of the sun or painting the skies that hover above blue.
I fear I won’t take the pack off my back and sit. And be.
I fear I won’t be kind to others. Or fair with others.
I fear a day in which I stop falling in love. Falling in love with myself.
I fear living out of a closed heart.
I fear being harassed on the road because I have breasts and a vagina.
I fear not having the courage to make an art of blasting my own path even though at times it may not feel like the certain thing to do.
I fear not pursuing romantic love once more even though I failed at it again.
I fear my judgement of others. For that is a mere reflection of judgement onto myself.
I fear I may miss the cairn that others that have gone before me have left. I fear missing it simply because I failed to pay attention.
I fear the day I stop being a part of the silence of the wild.
I fear the day I won’t listen to the stories the wind carries, even on the days when there is no wind blowing nor stories to be heard.
And I fear the day when fear becomes a reality.
As little as I’ve learned, I know my fear is too my illusion.
And the only illusion worth pursuing, the only illusion worthy of being real is love.
Only love.
overland track. cradle mountain / lake st clair national park
overland track. day 8. mount ida at sundown as shot from lake st. clair.
By the time I finished my walk, summer had already ended in Tasmania. The brisk autumn air was felt on my skin as I walked the last eleven kilometers of my trek.
That track I walked on, was the last stretch of that road.
The road in which I explored the unrelenting fear that many nights robbed my sleep and controlled me.
It was on that road where I reconsidered my upcoming travels to Asia and an unfinished project I think of daily. It was on that road where I decided what to do with both.
On the same road, I finally admitted my defeat as my relationship with a man I was learning to love concluded and with that, the vanished hope of a much dreamed-of hug upon my return to the desert, a return to that place I call home.
In retrospect, my initial travels in Tasmania were only the beginning of the road that eventually took me there.
Over the course of two months, that road took me from the Tasman Peninsula to the southeast, then over to the rugged northeastern coastline and then west to the center of the wild of this Australian island.
An island that can be described as enchanted. Where only desolate oceans filled with cold waters exists, where the green of the rainforest glows at night, where one can be with a mountain and be the only one atop, where strange looking creatures roam outside the tent while one sleeps and the calls of the parrots and the kookaburras wake one up just in time to be one with the first light.
Just to be. Just to feel.
It was during my exploration of that road, somehow, somewhere, I discovered where I needed to be.
I needed to be nowhere.
And it was on that road, on that island, where I found a new spring even though it was autumn when I left. A spring that slowly is leading me into another summer and soon will guide me somewhere into the land of the rising sun.
And on that road, on that road that took me nowhere, I somehow, somewhere, found my way home.
“When you go out there you don’t get away from it all, you get back to all of it. You come home to what’s important. You come home to yourself.” - Peter Dombrovskis, Tasmanian Wilderness Photographer.
mount acropolis as shot before reaching its summit. cradle mountain / lake st. clair national park.
overland track. day nine. finish of the trek. lake st. clair national park.