A Christmas Story in the Middle of Nowhere, Tasmania

The year was 2014, and we found ourselves with an unexpected opportunity: a chance to do a home exchange in Australia. Some friends we’d met in Mexico were planning a trip near Brisbane, but when their plans fell through, they generously handed the opportunity to us. A month-long stay in Australia? Yes, please!

Our kids were seven and five at the time, and it was our first big trip overseas as a family. The flight alone—15 or 16 hours—was a saga, complete with near-detainment at customs for carrying a stray apple in our luggage. Welcome to Australia.

We settled into a house perched in the trees outside Brisbane, reconnecting with an old college friend named Levi and his family. It was a magical start. But here’s the twist: we’d booked a two-month trip, leaving the second month completely unplanned. (Classic me—fly by the seat of my pants. Amanda? Probably not thrilled.)

The idea was to rent a camper van and explore, but by the time I looked into it, most options were booked solid. I finally found a camper bigger than I’d imagined navigating in a foreign country—and on the other side of the road, no less. It was a beast, but we made it work.

We journeyed down the coast, stopping at campsites right on the beach. Byron Bay was an unplanned highlight—a place so incredible we were ready to pack up and move there. From there, we made our way to Melbourne, soaking in the adventure as we went. But then came the big gamble: Tasmania.

I rented a car from a private owner in Melbourne and, technically, wasn’t supposed to take it out of the country. Did I? Just international waters, I guess. We drove it onto the ferry, crossed to Tasmania, and embarked on an unforgettable adventure.

Here’s the thing about planning on the fly during Australia’s summer: everything is booked. Everything. The only place we could find for Christmas was way out in the southernmost part of Tasmania, near Port Arthur. It was the middle of nowhere—a wild, remote area with no grocery stores or signs of civilization for miles. As we drove deeper into the wilderness, we realized just how unprepared we were.

The house we’d rented was… well, let’s call it “rustic.” It seemed like it hadn’t been used in ages. There was an ancient, overgrown tennis court out back and the place had a distinctly “we’ve been abandoned” vibe. We couldn’t even get the main heater going, relying instead on a single tiny plug-in heater that we all huddled around like survivors of some great expedition.

Christmas dinner? A tiny, remote mini-mart was our saving grace. We scavenged what we could, threw together the most bare-bones meal imaginable, and made the best of it. There wasn’t much to do in the house except huddle by the heater, watch a few Star Wars movies on a tiny TV while radical storms blew past, and we draped wet laundry over every available surface.

It wasn’t comfortable, it wasn’t glamorous, and it certainly wasn’t the Christmas we’d imagined. But it was ours. Somehow, despite the cold and the isolation, it became a story we’d laugh about for years to come. Amanda even wrote a whole book about our adventures called Vagabonding with Kids: Australia, chronicling every crazy detail. https://amzn.to/4gHcYxC

Looking back, that Christmas in the middle of nowhere Tasmania feels like the kind of memory you don’t realize you’re lucky to have until much later. It was wild, weird, and wonderful. And it’s a reminder that sometimes the best stories come from the moments when absolutely nothing goes to plan.

Merry Christmas Everyone!!

With Love,

Mike Turner

Journal Streak 347