The Nut: Climb First, Regret Later.

They said The Nut was iconic. They didn’t mention it would try to end me.

Fergus II met his untimely end in a brutal mid-air tango with a tree branch, and I? I did what any emotionally fragile drone parent would do—I paced the living room like a widow in a soap opera and ate my feelings in the form of whatever wasn’t nailed down in the pantry.

Fueled by regret and half a block of chocolate, I composed the saddest tech support request in DJI history. It read less like a warranty claim and more like a breakup letter to a man who never loved me back. Somewhere between ‘please help’ and ‘I swear I'll be better,’ I may have attached a selfie of me crying. DJI responded. Possibly out of pity. Possibly because I hit ‘send’ six times.

I fully expected to be laughed out of the inbox. I mean, my flying record reads like an Australian Transport Safety Bureau report. But instead of blacklisting me (fair), they sighed, probably muttered ‘not this woman again,’ and, against all better judgment, sent me a replacement.

Enter: Fergus III. Born of warranty, couriered over Bass Strait like a wide-eyed orphan heading straight into chaos. He landed on my doorstep shiny, fresh, and blissfully unaware that he was now property of the absolute worst drone pilot in Tasmania. Possibly in Australia. Possibly in the entire known universe.

I didn’t have the heart to tell him. He looked so hopeful, so... uncrashed. So I lied. I told him we were going on a ‘gentle maiden voyage.’ No surprises. No trees. No wind. No cliffs. Just open skies and a little casual aerial ballet. I was going to be careful this time. Responsible. Grounded. (Not emotionally - just... like, not airborne without reason).

So off we went, Fergus and I, down the Bass Highway to Stanley - home of The Nut, which is either a volcanic plug or a cosmic metaphor for my mental state. But I figured if I was going to launch this unsuspecting flying baby into the sky, it might as well be somewhere iconic.

With the twitchy hands and facial contortions of someone disarming a glitter bomb, I launched Fergus III into the great blue beyond. And miracle of miracles - he flew. Not sideways. Not backwards. Not directly into a powerline. No death spirals. No spontaneous drone seizures. Just pure, buttery flight like he actually trusted me. Fool.

Feeling invincible, I then decided to climb The Nut. Because obviously, the logical next step after a minor personal triumph is self-inflicted physical suffering. Let me be clear: this thing is steep. Many moons ago, someone kindly thought to install a chairlift, if you call dangling from a glorified shopping trolley suspended by what looks like dental floss and generational trauma, a chairlift. I don’t.

It creaked. It swayed. It gave off strong ‘featured in a WorkSafe video’ energy. I took one look and thought, nope, not today Satan, and chose the hike - because if I’m going to die, I’d rather it be from poor fitness choices than mechanical failure and a slow tumble into tourism infamy.

I made it to the top wheezing like a pug in a heatwave, only to discover - plot twist - a whole-ass ecosystem up there. No joke, there's a 2km nature walk circling the summit. Birds everywhere. Pademelons casually existing like this wasn’t a literal sky island. Surely they were born up here? Because if those tiny fuzzballs hiked up that incline voluntarily, I want whatever pre-workout they’re on.

Somewhere between step 2000 and emotional collapse, I began narrating my own demise in an ABC voiceover. ‘Here we observe the wild Liv - delirious, dehydrated, and deeply regretting life choices.’ But Fergus? Oh, Fergus was thriving. I let him out for another whirl, and he dove off the edge of that mountain like a Pixar character on a spiritual journey. I got about five glorious minutes of footage before my controller started shrieking things like ‘STRONG WIND WARNING’ and ‘HIGH RISK OF LOSING EVERYTHING.’ So, naturally, I kept flying for another two minutes. I am who I am.

Eventually, I made the rare mature decision to ground him before the DJI support team sent a drone of their own to forcibly confiscate mine. I mean, they’ve probably got me flagged as a repeat offender by now. There's probably a group chat about me.

On the drive home, I finally confessed the truth to Fergus III. That he was third in line. That Fergus I flew into a tree. That Fergus II met his leafy end at Leven Canyon, never to be seen again. He was horrified. Rightfully so. But I promised to do better. To be better. To not fly him straight into a eucalyptus tree just because it ‘looked cinematic.’

He didn’t say much. He’s a drone, after all. But I swear I heard the faint whirr of judgment. And I respect that.