Leven Canyon: Beautiful. Brutal. Drone Devouring.
The gorge that gives and takes - mainly takes.
Leven Canyon - The thrill of the wild. The sting of financial loss.
Just seven short days after Fergus II’s dazzling debut at Tasmazia - where he frolicked over miniature villages and tasted freedom - I decided it was time for another adventure. Because clearly, I have the attention span of a freaking goldfish and the risk assessment skills of a toddler with a fork near a power point.
During the week, I was forced to do this cruel thing called work - that pesky little system designed to keep you too tired for joy but just solvent enough to afford your next emotional support chai latte. Or in my case, the next drone to yeet into the stratosphere. I spent most of my shifts expertly avoiding the birth suite like I owed it money. Between the screaming, the flying bodily fluids, and doctors hovering like they’re auditioning for Worst Ideas Ever: Medical Edition, I’d rather be anywhere else. My happy place? Postnatal ward. A sleep-deprived game of emotional Jenga, where everyone’s crying, half are lactating, and someone’s just realised they’ve put a nappy on backwards… again. I thrive there. It’s my natural habitat. Basically I’m a feral fairy godmother slinging nappies and caffeine like I’m running a black-market baby bootcamp.
Needless to say, by Friday I was desperate for nature, solitude, and the sweet, slightly terrifying whir of my flying robot child. So off I trotted to Leven Canyon. The last time I tackled Leven Canyon, I did the lookout circuit, which is absolutely stunning if you like your scenery served with a side of vertigo. It’s also home to about 47,000 steps. But by divine miracle (or dumb luck), I’d taken the loop in the right direction, meaning I smugly sashayed down the endless staircase while sweaty tourists wheezed past me in despair.
Some well-meaning hiker mentioned a trail that led right to the canyon floor - a perfect launchpad for Fergus II to strut his propellers. Everyone warned me it was a brutal hike down, but honestly, Tasmanians might just be a bit soft? It wasn’t that bad. I mean, I’ve walked through IKEA during a school holiday. I’ve birthed children. I’ve parallel parked under pressure. I fear nothing. Honestly, Tasmanians, I love you - but some of you cry on escalators.
Eventually, I emerged at the canyon floor and immediately felt like I’d wandered into a tourism commercial. A crystal-clear river gurgled dramatically, birds tweeted like unpaid influencers, and a picturesque little bridge spanned the gorge. And - best of all - not a single soul in sight. Just me, the wilderness, and Fergus, practically vibrating inside his sleek little carry case, whispering ‘release me, mother.’
So I did.
He launched like an angel. Smooth. Graceful. Whirring like a man who brings his guitar to parties and refuses to play Wonderwall ‘because it’s too mainstream.’ I flew Fergus up the canyon first - careful, elegant little swoops, avoiding trees, dodging cliffs, capturing glorious footage of rock faces and river bends. I was basically Spielberg with extreme anxiety.
Then, feeling brave (read: delusional), I turned him down the canyon. Further. Further. A bit further. He went out of sight, but the live feed still looked good. And then - like a true cautionary tale - I spotted a bend in the gorge and thought, oooh what’s around there? More canyon? Secret lagoon? Rogue wombat rave? My curiosity hijacked my common sense and sent Fergus sailing around the corner.
That’s when it happened.
A tree. A smug, janky, gravity-defying tree growing sideways out of a rock wall like it had something to prove. And Fergus? My brave, beautiful boy? He yeeted himself straight into its arms like a Victorian heroine fainting onto a chaise lounge. I swear he didn’t even try to dodge. Just… bonk. Game over.
He dangled there in the branches like a shiny little sacrificial offering to the canyon gods.
I froze. Then, like any rational adult who just lost a small flying robot in a remote gorge, I hit the ‘Find My Drone’ button - which makes Fergus II beep and flash like a disco ball having a nervous breakdown. But the canyon was roaring. Water thundered so loud it could’ve drowned out a Metallica concert. The beeping was utterly useless. Useless.
I launched into full-blown panic: sprinting, yelling, crashing through undergrowth like a wild-eyed mainlander. I even performed a highly ill-advised leaf-litter slide directly toward the canyon edge, at which point I decided that maybe, just maybe, no drone footage was worth dying for. Not even the wicked canyon footage I’d already planned an epic Instagram post for.
And that was when I knew: Fergus II was gone.
His battery died. His lights went dark. My hopes and dreams plummeted faster than my credit score after a shopping spree at Melbourne DFO. There’d be no recovery mission, no hero moment, no miraculous mid-air resurrection. I had to let go. Broken in spirit, I whispered my goodbyes and dragged myself back to LB (that’s Livvy’s Bitch, for the uninitiated), who silently judged me with her fuel gauge and got me home without saying a word.
Then I did the thing no drone parent wants to admit: I opened the DJI app and contacted customer service. Again. Less than two weeks after Fergus II had arrived, bright-eyed and ready to fly. To their credit, they didn’t block my number. Legends.
So now we say goodbye to Fergus II: may your little plastic limbs rest gently in the arms of that cursed tree. May the possums respect your final resting place. May hikers gaze up at you and think, what idiot flew a drone into a vertical shrubbery?
Spoiler: it was me. I’m the idiot.
“Views were stunning. Woman yelling ‘Fergus’ at a tree really added ambience.”
