A Final Day in Tasmania
It was my last day in Tasmania. My flight was scheduled for the evening, and until then my host kindly offered to take me around to see more of the island.
Among the places we visited, Mount Wellington left the strongest impression. “I was thinking of walking the trail,” he said, “but today it’s just too cold—let’s go by car.”
As we drove up the winding mountain road, I saw a different side of him. Normally calm and steady, behind the wheel he revealed a spark of energy. Each press of the accelerator carried a quiet intensity, like a flame that usually stayed hidden but now showed itself with the sound of the engine.
Snow at the Summit
Mist rose among the trees, with beams of sunlight cutting through in a soft, dreamlike way. But near the summit, the atmosphere changed suddenly. The temperature dropped sharply, and to my surprise, snow began to fall.
“It’s really snowing…” I said aloud, unable to hold back my amazement. The air was near freezing, and I could no longer feel my fingers. We took a photo together, smiling and making peace signs, but when I looked at the picture later, I noticed a trace of weariness in his face. He must have been giving his best these past few days, making sure I enjoyed every moment.
The Giants of the Forest
After descending the mountain, he took me to see Tasmania’s giant trees. Standing tall and rooted deep in the land, they seemed to hold ancient memories in their trunks. Looking up at them, he quietly murmured, “Nature really is something.”
A Meal Made with Care
For dinner, he served homemade pizza. The dough had been baked from scratch, filling the house with a warm aroma. Even dessert was homemade. With a smile, he told me, “Everything here is made with ingredients from the garden.”
There was nothing exaggerated about the way he lived. Simply, calmly, carefully—always with nature. And that simplicity was the most beautiful thing of all.
A Letter of Thanks
After dinner, I handed him a letter. It carried my simple gratitude, the “thank you” that I always want to pass along during my journey. Alongside it, I included a blank sheet of paper with a note: “If you feel like it, maybe you could write a letter to someone too.”
It wasn’t meant as a request or obligation. Just a small invitation—that one day, if he remembered someone, he might send them a few words.
When he saw me off later, his figure looked light, almost like the wind itself. I thought to myself, “If I could grow older in that way, it would be enough.”
And with that thought, I headed for the airport, carrying Tasmania quietly in my heart.
