Ransons Beach

We trundled along rural roads for the best part of an hour before arriving at the turnoff to Ransons Beach. The loop was almost complete. We were heading to the north coast of Tasmania, our last look at Bass Strait before our return to the mainland in seven days.

After a 15klm dirt road in, we stopped at the top of a rise, one track left, one track right and Bass Strait dead ahead. Unbeknowns to both of us, Ransons Beach Campground was just one of a warren of campsites of vary dimensions and configurations, all invisible from our ‘vantage point’. The right option was down into a valley, a one -way ticket with no certainty of getting back out again. The left option, according to the map, had at least a route back onto the road we’d come in. We dropped into low range and gingerly made our way left, to the first fork in the road. Ransons Beach? The track disappeared down a steepish incline, access for our travelling circus, unknown. I left Ken idling. Only thing to do was to park and walk. It was steep, the bend at the bottom was tight but the reward was going to be worth it-if we succeeded.

It’s situations like this, when you just have to visualise your rig in the space available, trust your judgement and hope like hell you guessed right. There wasn’t much room in any direction as I swung wide on the turn, hugging the fence line on my left and watching the van follow me in. Then, a sigh of relief and smiles all round. Ken, seeing ‘proof of life’ followed in soon after. Having negotiated the ‘neck’, we were now in the ‘belly’ of the campsite. The beach was mere metres away. The setting had gone from fraught with danger to idyllic in 15 minutes.

The weather had become remarkably kind in just these few hours since we left Eddington Lighthouse. In the distance we could see the next storm front rumbling along the east coast, but apart from a few drops of rain, we were afforded sanctuary. The tyranny of distance was working in our favour.

Over the next two days, our attempts to catch a fish were truly heroic. We prowled Ransons Beach, casting our hopes religiously into the calm waters, using all manner of inducements. Nothing nibbled on our bait but something chowed down on our hope. Even Ken had to admit defeat. A chance conversation with the local park ranger had us haring off to a ‘secret’ location to catch squid, but even then, an onshore wind, brought the swell onto the rocks and the ‘risk v reward’ into play. Sullen silence on the drive back. The next day we contented ourselves with poking around in the other campgrounds nearby. Signage was non-existent, so each discovery was a bit of an adventure. Many were just for trailer camping and pop tops.

But, as the saying goes, every cloud has a silver lining. We stumbled onto the village Green Camping Area, and just for a minute, we rued our digs at Ransons Beach.

The air was still and the ocean shimmered. It was so not like you’d expect from Bass Straight coming into winter. Well, it was time to move on. Our exit strategy from the campground involved much calculation, pacing out the widths and the angles. Going uphill is trickier. When your dragging almost three tons behind you, you don’t really have the luxury of stopping. You work on the assumption that you only have one shot at it, so get it right. Thankfully we did.

Four days left. We’d heard about a ‘looxury’ free camp at a place called Scottsdale, a base from where we could tidy up our bucket list, a list that included Jacob’s Ladder, a famous, if perilous drive, to the summit of Ben Lomond plateau and maybe even some snow.