Day Two in Tasmania Plans Can Change

The day was planned. After breakfast Lyn would drive the van. Michael, Lenore, Jim, Amanda, RJ, and I would pile in and make the journey to Bruny Island. We would check out the light house, pick up roadside bread, enjoy culinary surprises and more.

A beautiful morning in Hobart, Tasmania. The half hour from the dock to the ferry went from divided highway to winding road in no time.

We got there with twenty minutes to spare. Twenty minutes! That’s practically a miracle for a group traveling together. We were congratulating ourselves—quietly, because it was still early and we were still just getting started—when a ferry employee walked up and gave us the news:

Today’s ferry would be two hours late.

Two hours.

There are delays, and then there are delays that make you question your entire life plan. We stood there for a moment, letting it sink in. We could wait, of course. We could sit around for two hours and then still have a full day ahead of us. But the mood shifted quickly from “We can do this” to “We are not wasting this day in a parking lot.”

So we made the call: we’d try again tomorrow.

And since we were already up, already out, and already committed to making something of the day, we pivoted. Someone suggested the lookout at Mount Wellington. It was close enough, dramatic enough, and flexible enough to become our new Plan A. The rest, we decided, we’d figure out as we went.

That’s how some of the best travel days happen—not because everything goes right, but because you stop fighting the day you’re given and start working with it.

On the way, we spotted what looked like a brewery. That was enough to plant the seed. I thought we could work that in later, and the GPS dutifully told us where to go. The only problem was that the GPS apparently had a sense of humor—or maybe it just didn’t care about human anxiety.

It directed us onto steep, narrow, winding dirt roads.

The kind of roads that make you wonder if you’ve accidentally signed up for an off-road adventure tour. The kind of roads where you can’t see around the next bend and you’re not entirely sure what you’ll do if another vehicle appears coming the other way. A few of us got nervous. You could feel it in the silence, in the way people leaned forward slightly, as if that would help.

But not Lyn.

Lyn loved driving. She handled those roads like they were a scenic bonus, not a questionable decision. If anything, she seemed more alive up there, like the challenge was part of the fun. Meanwhile, I was trying to decide whether I trusted the GPS or whether it was leading us to a place where we’d be forced to live off the land.

As we neared the top of Mount Wellington, the clouds rolled in and covered the peak. Then it started to rain. It was the kind of weather shift that happens fast—one minute you’re hopeful, the next you’re thinking, “Well, that’s that.” We’d come all this way for a view, and now we were driving into a gray wall.

But Tasmania wasn’t done with us.

Hope was restored when the clouds parted. Sunshine broke through like someone flipped a switch, and suddenly the whole landscape lit up. The wind, though—there was no ignoring the wind. It was powerful, the kind that pushes against you and makes you brace without thinking. It felt like standing on the edge of something enormous and alive.

And the views were wonderful.

From up there, everything looked bigger and clearer and more dramatic. Hobart spread out below, the water catching light in patches, the hills rolling away into distance. It was the kind of view that makes you quiet—not because you’re tired, but because your brain is busy trying to take it all in at once.

We saw the Odyssey up there too, which felt oddly perfect—something about that name, on that mountain, on a day that had already turned into its own little adventure. It made me laugh, because that’s what travel does: it turns simple plans into stories, and then it gives you little details that feel like they belong in a book.

Driving down, we stopped for another trail walk. Nothing too intense—just enough to stretch our legs, breathe in the sharp, clean air, and let the morning’s frustration burn off. There’s something about walking in a place like that that resets you. You stop thinking about schedules and delays and start paying attention to what’s right in front of you: the texture of the trees, the sound of wind moving through branches, the way the light changes every few minutes.

Eventually, we circled back to the brewery idea. We agreed to go to the one I’d picked out, and it turned out to be a great call: Cascade Brewery.

Cascade wasn’t just a place to grab a drink—it was a whole experience. The gardens were beautiful, the kind of setting that makes you want to sit longer than you planned. We ordered a paddle of beers, which is my favorite way to do it because it turns tasting into a conversation. Everyone has opinions. Everyone has a favorite. Someone always makes a face at one of them. It’s a small ritual, but it’s a good one.

And it wasn’t just beer. There were gins and whiskies too, which felt like a bonus level we hadn’t expected to unlock that day. We sampled, compared notes, and found ourselves lingering in that relaxed, satisfied way that only happens when you’ve earned the break.

One of the whiskies we liked was Lark, and once that idea got into our heads, it didn’t take long before we decided Lyn, RJ, Amanda, and I should stop at their distillery in Hobart. Because why not? The day had already gone off-script, and now we were leaning into it.

The Lark stop was exactly what you want from a distillery visit—interesting, flavorful, and just structured enough to feel like you’re learning something while still enjoying yourself. It added another layer to the day: not just scenery, not just drinks, but a sense of place. Tasmania has its own character, and you can taste it in what people make there.

By then, you’d think we’d be ready to call it. We’d been going all day, we’d driven winding roads, we’d climbed a mountain, we’d walked trails, we’d done a brewery, we’d done a distillery. That’s a full day by any standard.

But we had one more thing.

Bonorong Wildlife Sanctuary.

Reiner had set up two buses to take us there and arranged a private visit to the park, which immediately made it feel special—like we weren’t just showing up as tourists, but being welcomed in. When we arrived, they divided us into four groups, and before I knew it we were hand-feeding kangaroos.

There’s something disarming about feeding a kangaroo. You expect it to feel like a novelty, but it doesn’t. It feels oddly normal and oddly moving at the same time—this quiet moment where an animal trusts you enough to take food from your hand. Around us, people were smiling in that genuine way that’s hard to fake. Even the most tired among us looked suddenly awake.

Here's a little video of the kangaroos running all around us.

https://youtu.be/2yy3jFRnN2I

We also got a private tour of the rehab center, which was both fascinating and humbling. It’s one thing to see animals in a sanctuary; it’s another to understand the work behind the scenes—the care, the patience, the constant effort to heal and protect. We saw dozens of Tasmanian animals and birds, each with its own story and its own presence.

One of my favorite moments was spotting three Tawny Frogmouth birds sitting in a tree, watching everything like quiet little judges. Nearby, two others were rehabilitating in a large enclosure. Tawny Frogmouths have that incredible ability to look both wise and slightly unimpressed, and seeing them there—so still, so observant—felt like a gift.

Bonorong is a great establishment. You can feel it. It’s not just a place that displays wildlife; it’s a place that cares for it. And after a day that had started with disappointment and a two-hour ferry delay, ending there felt like the perfect topping—meaningful, memorable, and grounding.

By the time we finally wrapped up, we were exhausted in the best way: the kind of tired that comes from doing a lot, seeing a lot, and laughing a lot. We hadn’t made it to Bruny Island, not yet. But we’d made it to something else—a day that turned into its own unexpected highlight.

And we’d try again tomorrow.

Because Bruny Island was still out there, waiting.

And we hadn't wasted a day because of a two hour delay.