Because of his bruised and broken ribs from his motorcycle crash, Wayne stayed behind in St. Helens as Bob and I went out riding the beautiful Tasmanian roads for a day trip. The roads were a wonderful and dangerous thing. The lanes were thin, almost like a path, with no shoulder, several switchbacks and stray gravel on all the corners. Once in a while we'd pass a car, but seemingly only when we didn't expect it. I took the lead for the start and pushed as fast as I could go through the tight turns.

There was very little traffic and I took the liberty to use both lanes. I came around a corner at full speed to see a car coming directly at me. I brushed past it on the left and, I didn't know this before he told me, Bob swerved to the right of the car. Neither Bob nor I had enough time to see the facial reaction of the driver so I could only assume it would read of surprise, not of the good kind, and fear, but only for a split second before it turned to anger as he passed the two out of control motorcycles on his left and right. Bob and I hardly flinched as this type of thing happened all the time in South America, but it was still something to talk about at the end of the day.

A minute later we arrived at our first stop. This stop was not planned as we were just halting our journey whenever we found something of interest. This particular point of interest was the Columba Waterfall in the South George River.

After viewing the falls we were back on our bikes. As we wanted to finish Tasmania and the rest of Australia alive we slowed down and kept our bikes in control. I let Bob lead; he's better at navigation and riding within the speed limit.

Tasmania seemed to have a very diverse landscape. One moment we would be in an almost tropical climate then just ten minutes later we'd be in treeless dry plain. Around every corner the theme changed and a new scene would greet us.

Our small daytrip journey also led us to a long gravel road with a cliff on one side and a wall of dirt on the other. I was still not comfortable about driving fast through gravel roads, especially around the turns but I kept up pretty well, until I fell.

I was riding too close to the edge of the road, not the side with the cliff, and ended up riding in a small trench. I tried several times to pull out of it but I ended up smashing into the side of the wall and toppling over. I was fine, I wasn't going fast. I pulled up the bike, which was a bitch because it's so damn heavy, and shuffled it out of the gutter to the side of the dirt road. Bob came a few minutes later. He estimated that it was better that I crashed in the gutter rather than pulling out of it and going over the cliff or causing worse damage.

We made it back to the hotel sometime later and Wayne hadn't moved. He still sat on the edge of the bed with his pillow tucked between his arm and ribs for comfort. We stayed with him a couple more days to make sure that he was at least well enough to grocery shop and get around a bit. Bob and I felt bad about leaving him but there wasn't much we could do for him. He just had to wait out the pain.

We took south on the eastern coastal road towards Port Author where the old Australian Prison was. We didn't much fancy taking a forty dollar tour of the prison so we checked out the Tasmanian Devil Reserve instead. This was our only chance to see an actual Tasmanian Devil as they only come out at night time and, even then, are rarely ever seen in the wild except the dead ones that are smashed up on the side of the road.

They are cute little rodents with jaws that have strength second to the Great White Shark. They are scavengers that eat every part of the animal, even the fir and bones. Strangely, they don't resemble Taz from the Loony Toones.

From there we went back up to Sorrell and down the center to the southernmost point in all of Australia; a place called Cockle Creek. It was a beautiful area but it was drizzling a bit of rain. We were lucky though. That part of Tasmania gets 3 meters of rain every year. The clouds could easily have been pissing instead of spitting.

We went back up to Hobart where we took a few pictures of the capital city from an elevated position and kept riding north to Queenstown where we settled down for a night. In the morning we went back up to Devonport, where we began our Tasmanian adventure, and got back on the ferry at 8pm bound for Melbourne on the 11 hour cruise.

Bob and I made plans on the boat. Bob wanted to visit some friends in Melbourne and Adelaide. I had already met up with my friends from Melbourne before we went to Taz and I didn't know anybody in Adelaide. So I was set for going to Perth right when the boat docked. We said good luck to each other before heading in separate directions on our motorcycles. I took the road to Geelong, which is the beginning of the Great Ocean Road.

The Great Ocean Road is a thing I heard about when I first started traveling three and a half years ago and it's a road that I have wanted to visit since then; seeing the massive rock formations of the Tweleve Appostles (now 8 because of natural erosion) the other beautiful scenery and cliffs along the way. I believe it was this anticipation, embedded in my mind that it was spectacular, that made it quite a boring journey. There were so many tourists going 20 miles an hour looking over the side of the road and none of them using the slow driver turnoff points. I cracked and started using both lanes and zooming between cars and going three times the speed limit. The road was actually quite good because it swerved left and right and resided on the edge of a cliff. If there was no traffic and no speed limits the road would be fantastic.

Inevitably I got stopped by the police. The cop was cool about it though. "I think you must have kilometers and miles confused on your motorcycle there, sonny. The sign says 80 kilometers an hour, not 80 miles an hour, yeah? ", he mused. "Anyway, we didn't stop you for speeding as you were going too fast for us around the corners to pull the trigger on the radar gun, but we did catch you, several times in fact, going in the other lane across double lines in a safety sensitive zone. It took us three or four kilometers to catch up with ya and I think you even may have done 130 in a 60 kilometer zone. How long you've had the bike? It would seem like you've practiced this type of daredevil speed riding before."

I couldn't help but smile. In all of Central and South America it was expected that I'd ride like a maniac, because that was the norm. I did that for about a year and got quite good at it. To me it was a compliment that he acknowledged my illegal driving skills but at the same time I was thinking "Man, you haven't seen anything yet".

He checked my US drivers license, international driver's license, and registration for the motorcycle. I was a bit worried because I don't have a motorcycle permission on my US license, my international drivers license was forged, and I didn't have proper Australian registered plates like I was told that I needed. All three documents that he asked for were in some way corrupt. Luckily (I say that word lightly), I only got slapped with a $180 dollar fine and told to slow down and keep to my own lane.

I asked the cop what would happen if I didn't pay it. He shrugged and said, "Well, nothing would stop you from leaving the country without paying it I suppose, but you'd have to handle it if you want to revisit Australia."

Well that settles it, I'll handle it in a few years. I really cannot be bothered right now.

The sun sets at about 9pm so it is best that I start searching for a campsite on the side of the road at around 7pm so I don't get caught in the dark while setting up my tent. I made it to Mt Gambier, a few hundred kilometers away from Melbourne, where I started my day. At the campsite that I chose there were hundreds of massively tall pine trees rooted close together and their entire trunks would sway with the wind knocking into surrounding trees.

Within a minute I erected my tent upon the two inch thick floor of fallen pine needles in the middle of these trees. At first glance it would seem that this would be uncomfortable bedding, but the pine needles created a kind of cushion.

In the swiftly fading soft light of the forest with my portable home arranged I climbed backwards onto my parked motorcycle and leaned back against the handle bars with my feet propped up on the panniers. In this comfortable position I read the pages of my new favorite book called Shantaram and lit up a hand rolled cigarette.

When the light ceased and I could no longer focus on the words I closed the book and listened to the wind in the trees and the sound of pine needles falling and thinking "Damn, it's a good life".

It's a beautiful feeling knowing that my whole life, everything I own and need is right there. My transportation is a motorcycle, my career is a laptop, my house is a tent, and my freedom is the combined three. It's only then when your smoking a cigarette, staring a the stars, and feeling the breeze pass through your hair that you begin to realize how much you don't need in life.