Cradle Mountain: where Liv defies drone laws, climbs like a sweaty goat, and searches in vain for wombats that clearly ghosted her. Fergus III flies. Liv nearly dies. The views? Worth the emotional damage and possible fine.

Fergus II died in a tree. I begged DJI for a second (third) chance. Enter Fergus III: fresh, naïve, and doomed. I flew him at The Nut, didn’t crash (miracle), wheezed up the hill, ignored wind warnings, and somehow survived. He’s suspicious. I don’t blame him.

Escaped work and launched Fergus II into the wilds of Leven Canyon, and within minutes he yeeted himself into a tree like a moth with a death wish. I screamed. The canyon echoed. Nature judged. RIP, little propeller prince. A story of drama, foliage, and deeply avoidable mistakes.

Fergus I died doing what he loved: disobeying me. Fergus II rose from the warranty ashes, and I took him to a place called Lower Crackpot (fitting). I got lost, concussed, and mildly judged - but Fergus II soared like a majestic, slightly panicked sky rat. A flawless day.

What started as a wholesome day of brunch and waterfalls quickly spiralled into drone carnage, barefoot river acrobatics, and a frosty dip that nearly sent my soul to the cheese aisle in the sky.

In a deeply questionable turn of events, I now control a flying object. His name is Fergus Flyboy, and he's a brave little drone with trust issues and front-row seats to my midlife tech awakening. After years of stumbling through hikes and mildly injuring myself at sea level, I’ve decided to take my chaos to the skies. Am I qualified? Emotionally, no. Legally… still no.

I swapped the suburbs for a Hilux, a drone named Fergus, and a national tour of “WTF just happened?” I deliver babies for a living, but on my days off I deliver chaos - one wrong turn, wine spill, or wombat encounter at a time. Living rent-free (emotionally and literally), chasing waterfalls, and mildly terrorising Australia. Buckle up, buttercup - it's a bumpy, beautiful ride.