Ascend with Rhi: Untethering Roots in Australia

Years ago, at the start of my travels, I got a postcard from a friend that simply said: “There once was a man who became unstuck in this world. He realized that he was not his job, he was not his phone, his desk or his shoes. Like a boat cut from its anchor he began to drift.” For years, these words resonated so deeply. After a life of being defined and boxed in by myself and those around me, I just wanted to be—and see where that took me. I wanted to let myself be drawn to things without becoming them, and while I wasn't unflawed in pursuit of this ideal, I built a life that felt igniting and authentic. And yet. I knew this state wouldn’t last exactly like this forever and that I didn’t want it to. As my life has evolved and shifted over the past few years through partnership and other grounding choices, I have sought to understand the two parts of myself. The part that wants to be free as a bird, and the part that wants a familiar flight path to return to. This trip to Australia was an exploration in re-aligning with a past self and integrating it into the present…

I turn over in my sleeping bag, awoken by the echoes of the kookaburras laughing into the night. At this moment, I am worlds away from Bishop, California. Half a world, to be exact. Away from the endless list of house projects, the grinding of concrete floors, and the task of scraping popcorn asbestos from ceilings. Drew and I are nestled in our small tent, cocooned together as raindrops drum on the roof. Out here, under the endless Australian sky, we have no house project lists to tick off, no set plans or goals, just the task of waking to the balmy scent of eucalyptus and allowing the day to unfold. We are camped at Arapiles, a storied climbing area in the Wimmera plains of western Victoria.

Just a few days ago, we arrived in Melbourne, stumbling through the streets, heads foggy from the clock hands that spun forward 14 hours. We toured a succession of coffee shops, fighting the jet lag head-on with caffeine. After poring over train and bus timetables, we started our journey east. A string of trains and buses, capped with a ride from a friendly local named George from the Aldi grocery store, gets us to the Pines campground. Along the journey, I could feel my brain start to untwist and slacken into a relaxed state. There is nothing more comforting to me than days ahead that are open-ended and serenely structureless. Yet even after years of experiencing this, I found myself craving stability; found myself making decisions that began grounding me. I slowly reformed roots in new soil, just not so tightly bound as once past. When a house became available in our dream town in the Eastern Sierras last year, we made a hasty decision to put in an offer and that’s how we found ourselves with a fixer-upper in Bishop.

Out here in the Wimmera Plains, days exist on a different calendar. It feels like a portal—a window back to our roots and a glimpse into what could lie ahead. It’s grounding, but in a way that feels expansive. We’ve always agreed that no matter what, we can change our lives. Our choices have always been guided by instinct, and we continue to listen to that unshakable pull. While I have questioned that philosophy in the past year, Drew carries the vision of a future where life can shift and bend, just as it always has for us. Somewhere sprawling like Australia seemed like the ideal place to rediscover that pull.

The climbing here is engaging, thoughtful, and unpredictable—a style that suits us both. I feel grateful that Drew shares my approach to climbing—holding it lightly, treating it as a way to explore rather than a fixation. I find myself drawn to the quiet moments here: walking among eucalyptus trees at dusk, listening for the rustle of a kangaroo or the distant call of a bird I’ve never heard before. I crouch to study fresh echidna tracks in the soft dirt, inhale the sharp scent of native plants, and lose myself in the rhythm of this land. These adventures are grounded in the landscape in a way that transcends the physical act of climbing.

On one of the last days, we hike up to the base of Kachoong, one of the most classic and well- known routes at Arapiles. The route starts on a perch from which you step out onto the starting holds, an expanse of air beneath your toes. I’ve always enjoyed the sense of exposure, yet as I look up at the 90-degree roof that imposes ahead, I feel my fingers grip the rock a little tighter. I move up the face and into the roof, my body horizontal to the ground below. I feel like a lizard, limbs stretched out across the rock yet lacking the sticky skin. At the lip of the climb, I glance at my last piece of gear, left long ago under the roof. My arms suddenly scream with lactic acid, my fingers uncurl from their grip, and I am falling through the balmy air, lizard limbs cartwheeling through the air. I squeal with delight at the ride.

After a few weeks of climbing and rain days and animal tracking, Drew and I part ways. He flies north to the Northern Territory, and I have a few days to wander Melbourne before flying to Brisbane. In Melbourne, I stay in a small room at the back of a woman’s home. Laura, my host, has curated the space effortlessly, her eclectic art breathing life into every corner. I feel instantly at ease here. Wandering the botanical gardens and sifting through thrift stores for treasures, I’m reminded of the joy in creating a space to call home. I find solace in dreaming of the finished space: rugs and textiles from our travels, knickknacks found and bartered, and a balance between Drew’s style and mine. Maybe it’s impossible to kick that ancient urge to nest. Even if the nest is just a twig or two.

From Melbourne, I journey north to my cousin Bryn’s home. For years, Bryn has been trying to coax me to visit him in Oz. Bryn’s house is perched high in the trees, surrounded by bamboo like a vibrant treehouse. Each kitchen cabinet is painted a different color, and the open doors let the fresh breeze carry the pulse of the forest inside. Bryn, his wife Cath, and their daughter Carys—a namesake of my sister—welcome me with warmth and familiarity. Together, we explore the city by bike, share meals, and reminisce.

Moving east of Brisbane my journey takes me to Stradbroke Island. After several trains and buses, a ferry ride, and a walk through the trees, I find my campsite tucked among the shrubs at the edge of the beach. The ocean stretches endlessly, its rhythm soothing and grounding. I rent a surfboard and catch the tiniest of waves, marveling as blue whales breach on the horizon—my very first time witnessing these gentle giants. It’s a stop-your-soul moment, one that reminds me of how deeply connected I feel to the world when immersed in nature. Each day on the island is simple and fulfilling: beach walks, ocean swims, and meals made with spices Cath supplied me. I shed the city’s frenetic energy with each dip in the sea, reconnecting with myself and the vastness of the ocean that has always felt like home.

The final leg of my trip takes me to Bryn’s sailboat, back on the mainland in Redland Bay. We set out with a few of his friends to the lesser-known west side of Stradbroke Island. Each of us take turns at the helm as the tiny craft slices through crosswinds, navigating between islands, until we reach a remote strip of sand. Time on the boat reminds me of the three months I spent sailing and crewing on one in Southeast Asia in my 20s—a period in life that bridged a gap between a conventional life and an untethered one. The landscape here feels ancient and alive, with goannas blending into the trees and the ocean lapping at the shore.

Over the next few days, we spot sea turtles and dugongs, and smaller critters going about their lives in the shallow waters. Seemingly thousands of army crabs cover the beach creating abstract art with tiny balls of sand left in the wake of their burrow holes. I collect shells and arrange them in aesthetically pleasing patterns. I feel akin to the crabs, my focus locked into the color and shape of each shell, channeling a presence that is rare and precious these days.

We take care to swim only at high tide, wary of the sharky waters, evidenced by the slick black fin we’d watched cutting through the waters one morning. The following days are spent under the sun, sharing stories, and marveling at the untouched beauty of this place. As the trip comes to an end, I feel a quiet clarity and leave Australia with a tended heart, carrying the wisdom of its landscapes, the warmth of friends and family, and the excitement of returning to the life Drew and I are building together. This trip was a reminder of how to live—always listening to the quiet whispers of instinct and allowing life to unfold in its own unpredictable time. I spent some time with what I deemed a “past self”…and then remembered that I’m still that person. While I may not be on a never-ending road trip, freedom is a mindset and the adventure I’m currently on is no less wild. In fact, the depth of it scares me in a way that is familiar in the grandest of adventures.