Mother Nature Claps Back
One small flight for Fergus. One giant faceplant into a tree.
So, Fergus Flyboy and I continued our great Tasmanian love affair - he soared, I frolicked, and together we made magic. Picture me channeling Julie Andrews, belting out Do-Re-Mi while Fergus zipped over technicolour fields of tulips and poppies like a mechanical falcon on uppers. Honestly, if Julie herself had pranced out of the hills in a dirndl, I wouldn’t have even blinked.
Anyway, drone musicals aside, my mate and I decided to hit up Liffey Falls, but first, brunch. Because priorities. We pulled into the Christmas Hills Raspberry Farm, which - hot tip - contains zero Christmas vibes. But it does serve up enough berry-themed chaos to leave you fruit-drunk and questioning your life choices. I left 96% berry and 4% regret.
Then, we plunged into the Tasmanian wilderness, which politely greeted us with a dirt road from hell. LB (that’s Livvy’s Bitch, my long-suffering car) was living her rally-car fantasy while my friend silently drafted her obituary in the passenger seat. I, naturally, was thriving and having a grand old time.
We made it to the trailhead alive (somehow), and wandered into the rainforest, smug and naive. A few minutes in, we stumbled upon a postcard-worthy bit of river. Perfect spot to fly Fergus, I thought. What could possibly go wrong?
EVERYTHING.
Drunk on false confidence from previous open-sky flights, I launched Fergus into the rainforest like some kind of aerial ballerina. He twirled. He glided. He clipped a tree like a drunk magpie and spiralled into the abyss. The screen filled with branches, leaves, and my hopes and dreams being shredded in 1080p.
And where did my precious drone land? Across the goddamn river, of course. So off came the joggers. I rolled up my pants, channelled my inner swamp witch, and skated across slimy river rocks like a wounded stork in front of a live tourist audience who absolutely did not pay enough for this level of comedy. I retrieved Fergus. He had a busted arm, a shattered face, and the vacant stare of a drone who’d seen too much.
Thankfully, I’d bought the drone replacement plan - a moment of past-self brilliance for which I will never stop patting myself on the back. Fergus was gently laid to rest in his little case. A hero. A fool. A martyr.
Down we trekked to the actual Liffey Falls, which were - of course - raging, majestic, and 10/10 drone-worthy. But no. I had to film them with my eyeballs like a peasant. I’m still bitter about it.
Then, because why stop the suffering, we decided to go for a swim. The water was sub-zero, freshly melted from some ancient glacier that hates joy. My friend and I stripped down to our glorified tea towels, dipped a toe in, and immediately lost all feeling below the knee. But did we stop? Of course not. I yeeted myself in like an idiot on a dare. My soul left my body, filed a complaint, and caught the next ferry to Queensland.
Meanwhile, a group of modestly dressed women were wading about happily in their burkini-style swimmers, and I’ve never been more jealous of a sensible wardrobe in my life. Forget bikinis. Tasmania needs tactical wetsuits. Note to self: pack for hypothermic hell, not Tropical Island Barbie.
After reassembling what remained of our dignity, we hoofed it back up the trail, and wouldn’t you know it? I cracked a sweat. In Tasmania. We collapsed into LB where I wasted no time cranking the heater to volcanic inferno to begin the long thaw.
One final emotional support stop at Ashgrove Cheese Factory, because nothing heals like lactose. I purchased enough dairy to sedate a small yak and finally drove home, humming Do-Re-Mi like a deranged goat herder in mourning.
Hypothermia 101. There’s not a single cell in my body that’s not screaming.
⭐☆☆☆☆ – “Crashed. Betrayed. Mossy.”
Reviewer: Fergus_Flyboy (Deceased)
Date of Death: January 23, 2025
Started strong - swooping over tulips like a cinematic king. Ended face-first in a tree because my pilot (Liv, Queen of Overconfidence) fancied a low-flying river shot.
Crashed. HARD. Across the river. She retrieved me barefoot while tourists cackled.
Now grounded. Spirit broken. Packed away like bad sushi.
Pros: Scenic AF.
Cons: Pilot is a menace. No spatial awareness. RIP me.
Would not recommend.
I was too young. Too beautiful. Too airborne.
⭐☆☆☆☆ – “Built for off-road, not off-her-rocker.”
Reviewer: LB_the_TyreSquealer
Location: Hell a.k.a. a gravel road in the Tasmanian bush.
Date of Incident: January 23, 2025
Yes, I’m a 4WD. No, that doesn’t mean I want to audition for Fast & the Feral: Tasmania Drift. Liv drove me down a loose gravel death chute like she was possessed by the ghost of a rally driver with a death wish.
I skidded, I squealed, I prayed to the mechanical gods.
Pros: I was technically built for this.
Cons: My shocks are traumatised. So am I.
Would I recommend this experience?
Only if you hate yourself and your suspension.
