A Freezing Morning and the Strength to Live
The moment I opened my eyes inside the tent, the cold pierced my skin. I curled up inside my sleeping bag, unwilling to move. It felt as though even my heart had frozen. Perhaps this was the harshest cold I had experienced on the journey so far.
I lit my small stove, listening to the steady roar of the flame. That sound alone released some of the tension in my chest. Slowly, I boiled water, poured it over oatmeal, and warmed up a pack of curry-flavored ready-to-eat food. I forced it down along with hot tea. With every bite and sip, the ice deep inside me seemed to melt little by little. In that moment, I realized how much power a simple warm meal can hold—it was more than food, it was survival.
Downhill Roads and a Surprising Pass
My fingers and toes were still numb, so I melted the frost that covered my tires with the burner before setting out. The morning sun rose quickly, making the water droplets on my tent sparkle like tiny glass beads.
The road ahead was almost entirely downhill. There were short stretches of climbing, but the 368-meter pass that had looked daunting on the map turned out to be surprisingly easy. I could not help but compare it to the punishing climb to Cann River the day before, and the contrast made me smile. That struggle had taught me just how severe the road could be.
Genoa: The Eastern Edge of Victoria
By midday, I reached Genoa. This small town sits at the far eastern edge of Victoria. Only ten kilometers beyond lies New South Wales, the next chapter of my journey.
But today, I chose not to rush forward. Instead, I stopped at a free campsite to rest. As I spread out my tent and sleeping bag to dry, a man approached. He introduced himself as Alan, a traveler who had converted his Estima van into a small caravan. His easy smile immediately put me at ease.
What started as a casual greeting turned into a two-hour conversation. By the time we looked at the clock, the decision was made: I would stay here for the night.
Sweet Coffee and a Spicy Dinner
Alan brewed coffee for us. He stirred in four spoonfuls of condensed milk, something I would never have thought to try. At first, I hesitated at the sweetness, but to my surprise, it was smooth and comforting.
Dinner followed: a rich stir-fry filled with mushrooms, capsicum, chili, and eggplant. The spice and warmth spread through my body, loosening muscles that had been stiff from the cold morning ride. Afterward, we tossed around an AFL ball, laughing under the fading sky. The night moved gently, carrying with it the feeling of unexpected friendship.
The Meaning of Simply Being Alive
As we sat together, Alan shared a piece of his story. Last year, he had suffered a heart attack and barely survived. He now called every day after that moment his “bonus time.”
“It’s not about what I can do anymore,” he said quietly. “The only thing that matters is that I am here, alive.”
His words settled deep in me. They were not dramatic, but they carried a weight I could not ignore.
The cold, the passes, the meals, the laughter—all of them were reminders of life. Every difficulty, every kindness, every encounter became proof of being alive. As I crawled into my sleeping bag that night, I felt grateful not just for the day, but for the chance to keep moving forward.
