The unwinding tar ribbon fluctuates, challenges, unnerves.
Ripples, ruts and road kill speeds past beneath us; bloated lumps of fur and grotesque smears along the dotted white line.
When I am not driving, I am gazing out the window, admiring the sun draped hillside.
When I am on the road, I am home.
Tasmania: hauntingly strange, painfully familiar, achingly far. It has an unsettling call that lashes wildly across ocean and desert; a spirited place with a frozen echo.
The island is both epically beautiful, and sincerely tragic, with rugged and brutal truths that were written in a long forgotten secret language.
Roads weave endlessly over steep rises and around sharp corners; you can feel the lingering nostalgia in the isolation, and hear the land whispering and murmuring to itself through the wind.
It is indescribable, and it is fascinating. It is cryptic, it is desolate, it is lonely. It is perfect.
I can’t wait to feel the cold air on my face.
The Nullarbor Plain: it’s that stretch of semi-arid landscape, on the coast between the desert and the coast on the Great Australian Bight, where the sky opens up and the horizon appears unreachable. It’s a place where the wind is hollow and an echo could ring out for a day, without another living soul having heard it. It’s where the road, an endless black ribbon, unravels beneath the feet and wheels of those who travel it, and fragments of the past, ghosts of history, linger in the bristling calm.
Blitzing across this flat land, we are not oblivious to its mysteries, but we are genetically unequipped to understand them. Alone or in company, it’s only natural to run out of things to talk about. We hurtle along, silent, invincible, but relatively insignificant. The sun hunts us as we speed due west, but out here, it always beats you to that line between the land and the sky.