The family that fights together stays together

The minutes of 2015 ticked down as we rode into Hobart on December 31st. We disembarked feeling tired, discombobulated with the abrupt transition from wilderness to city, grumpy and famished. A stop at the fish and chip boat in the harbour satisfied our hunger, and a rest in the tourist office helped us get our bearings, but it wasn't until we got to Kara and Ben's place that we really relaxed. Though our hosts, due to fly in from Sydney that evening, hadn't yet arrived, they had left a key for us and their landlord welcomed us with open arms and mince pies. Inside were presents that our thoughtful family had sent us for Christmas, including new shirts from Grandma Rosie and Grandpa Peter that were a very welcome change from our camping wardrobe of the past many months.

Everyone is smiling here, but as you can imagine it's not always fun and games. Being together 24-7 for the past eleven months means the family dynamics vary from sweet harmony to mutinous discord, within the same day, hour or even minute. 

Being with friends keeps us solidly on the positive end of the spectrum, and it was lovely to see Kara and Ben when they arrived later that evening. We had meant to pick them up in their car but discovered it was standard, over which arguments ensued over whose fault that oversight was (mine). Neither of us had driven a standard in years and Paul was sure he'd burn out the clutch, stall mid-highway or worse if he tried. A taxi came to the rescue, and we all rang in the the new year with oysters, champagne and a view of the fireworks from the balcony.

The kids have a limited capacity for good behaviour indoors. Sitting peacefully on the couch morphs into climbing on top of it and throwing pillows, and quiet games of cards turn into acrimonious arguments over who won (or cheated), so we were glad to be able to take them to a great park nearby.

or send them outside to the tennis court in the backyard.

In Hobart we bumped into Hugh and Zoe from the Overland Track (who'd witnessed our complex negotiations and resultant tantrums around splitting up the precious bar of camping chocolate) at the Taste of Tassie festival where we didn't have to fight over the region's best food but instead got our own treats. Big Bessie's ice cream truck served up scrumptious ice cream -

I loved the crack caramel pie pieces in the Breaking Bad sundae (garnished with a topping of blue ice powdered sherbet).

We had a brief interlude on our own on beautiful Bruny Island, 

where we hiked 3km along the beach 

to get to a lovely secluded campground in the trees. No arguments when we united against a common enemy - a group of drunken guys still blasting guns 'n roses at 3 am - I went over to shut down the party and Paul provided unconditional support from the sleeping bag. Come morning we hiked up into the hills, 

then trekked back to the car and drove to a different campsite, close to an equally lovely beach, 

on the end of the narrow Neck that joined North and South Bruny. 

We joined the ranger to watch fairy penguins march in from the sea as soon as it got dark. They moved quickly in the cutest conga line ever, scurrying off once they reached the dunes and scrub into the safety of their nesting burrows.

Then it was off to Picaninny Cottage, a hidden gem available only through word of mouth for five glorious days of sun, 

sand, 

and surf 

with Kara, Ben, his daughter Olive, and two of their friends, Frankie and Alma. It was wonderful to see how well the kids got along,

though Tom got frustrated at not being part of all of the girl's games. At one point as the girls ran off I had to take him aside to explain that they needed some space, resulting in him throwing himself on the ground exclaiming with characteristic drama "There go Kyra and her friends, having such a great life, my life sucks".

When we weren't at the beach we were hard at work in the hammocks,

taking baths in the outdoor tub,

walking the tightrope,

and careening down the zipline,

from whose perch I sat to watch the sunrise. 

We flipped pancakes in the morning and cooked dinners in the outdoor kitchen, with lots of chips in between.

Paul and Ben manfully chopped wood and made fire at the outdoor pit,

and in the evenings we philosophized by the fire or speculated about artificial intelligence by candlelight in the unpowered cabin.

We had no trouble filling our time at the cottage but did do a couple of excursions, one to a lagoon 

reached by a short walk, 

the other to Apsley Gorge where the water was cold, fresh and deep.

When it was time to go we didn't want to so we extended our visit for one more night and even then could have stayed longer. But time and camping reservations (not to mention work) wait for no man so we all reluctantly packed up and went on our way - Kara, Ben and Olive back to Hobart, and the five of us to Freycinet National Park.

No sooner had we set up our campsite at Freycinet's beautiful Honeymoon Bay

than some new friends - Ricky, Karen and their 8 year old son Dorian - arrived. A month previous, Ricky French  (who took the above photo) had gotten in touch to interview me for a story about the Three Capes hike. The article made the front page of Australia's national newspaper, 

(though my quote was the last paragraph at the bottom on page 9). 

We exchanged information on our trip to Tasmania, and arranged to join forces for some hiking, which is how they knew to find us at Freycinet.

 

Dorian and Tom became fast friends (Ricky also took this photo), 

doing puzzles, Harry Potter games, and beach cricket together, with wallabies as spectators (to the left of Jacob).

Together we hiked the shores of Friendly Beach, 

swam in the inland lagoon, 

and trekked up to the lookout over Wineglass Bay,

which many think is romantically named after the shape of the beach but actually derives from the fact that, instead of the turquoise we see today, the waters ran red when the whaling industry was in full force just offshore.

The kids took a mid-hike break for one of their regular tussles, which always start off as friendly wrestling matches but usually finish with screams and tears.

Ricky and his family moved on to Hobart, while we travelled north to the Bay of Fires, so named because of the red lichen covering the rocks, 

atop which we ate our dinner of rice, beans, guacamole and mangos.

We said good-bye to the beach and headed inland to Derby, a town soon to be world renowned for its amazing mountain bike trails, which Paul and Jacob explored for a few exhilirating hours.

Tom, Kyra and I did our own little walking tour, 

stopping at the playground and sampling the town's milkshakes and pastries.

Besides the physical travels the five of us are undertaking, there is also the very emotional journey we are on together, which has as many ups and downs as our hikes through the mountains. Sometimes I wonder if other families would get along more peacefully than we do. We argue about whose turn it is, whose fault it is, who lost it, who got us lost, and whose feet smell the worst. When things around us go awry or are beyond our control, we too often vent our frustration on each other rather than going with the flow. That might be okay for six year old Tom, 

sulking because he was too small to go on the mountain bike ride with Paul and Jacob, or maybe even ten year old Kyra, 

having a meltdown because Jacob swatted her pet fly into the sand, but not for us adults. Fortunately there's no photographic evidence of my outbursts but they exist all the same (far more than Paul's if I'm honest about it). But, we keep trying to be better people, and can only trust that despite the occasional emotional tribulations, the lessons we are learning about how to get along will make us better people, not dwelling on negativity and conflict but leaping with joy and light!