My friend Adele drove up from Hobart for a weekend getaway, arriving in Tarraleah on Friday night so we could set off early the following morning. We didn’t have an exact destination in mind, we just planned to head west and see where the road took us.

As we began our journey, my eyes felt fresh and ready to take in every detail, after several weeks in one small location I was once again exploring, experiencing the unknown.

The constant for our two day adventure was trees. Trees and winding roads. Lining the road along the way, so many different shades of green danced in the sky above.

A couple of hours away from Tarraleah, we passed startling fields of silvery grey. Still majestic and beautiful in death, this was what remained after furious forest fires last summer. The had fire passed through quickly enough to leave the trees still standing, slowly enough to destroy the leaves and life within. As it fed back into healthy life, I admired the stark contrast of deep green and brown intertwined with light grey.

After a stop at Nelson Falls, where we enjoyed a short walk through rainforest to find a towering, tumbling cascade of water, we made our way to the red hills of Queenstown. So completely different to its New Zealand namesake, the entrance into the settlement was no less dramatic. Once a thriving mining town, it sits at the centre of a golden orange pit. Striations in rock walls displayed beauty within the destruction. Grey, white, yellow, gold and orange blended together surrounded our winding descent, time allowing for splashes of green as trees and wilderness began their return.

The road to Queenstown

We spent the night at Macquarie Heads, just past the touristic town of Strahan (pronounced ‘strawn’). The road had been slow and winding, the edges spattered with the bright orange of blue bell like flowers, lime green mossy trunks shadowing our way.

A gravel track took us to the end of the harbour, passing echidna and some permanent looking caravan homes along the way. Aside from the small group of older motorhomers there were few others around giving us our pick of the site. We chose a secluded location beneath some palm like trees, surrounded by bushland and for a short time, accompanied by a surprisingly tame potteroo (a cute create akin to a large rat).

After a campstove curry dinner, accompanied by music filtering across the site from the older folks, we took a walk to the end of the harbour beach to watch the sun set. Fishermen nearing the end of their day stood at the water’s edge, a dog beside his owner, seagulls littering the pink tinted sky. Across the water a lighthouse flickered into action as the remaining colour descended behind green hills.

I lay down in my tent that night, turned out the light and smiled as the usual rustle of leaves was accompanied by a gentle thumping of wallabies.

After a gentle morning, enjoying our breakfast with a harbour view and taking a gentle stroll through Strahan park we began our return journey. The skies had darkened and some rain bounced from the windscreen. The landscape alive with a mystic character that is lost within a sunny day. The clouds, by dampening distant colours, accentuated those up close.

The final leg was bordered by trees tipped lightly with yellow and orange, bristled leaves like the stained tips of a paintbrush. Then I was once again back in that anomaly, the perfectly kept village of Tarraleah.