Between Forest and Future

The forest released us reluctantly, its towering eucalypts giving way to pastoral landscapes as we navigated toward Wallan. Our morning carried dual purpose—practical decluttering and necessary transit—as we prepared for the orchestrated dance of trial screenings and family logistics. The weight plates that had accompanied our journey from its beginning now represented unnecessary ballast, their rigid iron replaced months ago by the elegant simplicity of resistance bands that could transform any space into gymnasium.

The train station car park became impromptu marketplace as our buyer arrived, cash exchanging hands while commuters rushed past our small transaction. These plates had witnessed our transformation from conventional life to nomadic existence, their weight once grounding us in routine, now released to ground someone else's fitness journey. The symbolism wasn't lost on us—shedding physical weight as we continued lightening our material load, each possession released making space for experience rather than objects.

Anth and Torrin disappeared into the V-Line's embrace, the regional train whisking them toward Melbourne with efficiency that validated our strategic positioning. The train had become unexpected ally in our trial participation—connecting rural refuges to urban obligations without requiring us to navigate the bus through city congestion. From our forest camp to metropolitan screening in mere hours, public transport bridging worlds that felt philosophically distant despite geographical proximity.

Sal remained with the bus, transforming our mobile home into temporary office. University assignments demanded attention regardless of location, her laptop balanced on the table while academic theories merged with the practical education of nomadic life. This ability to maintain conventional obligations while living unconventionally had become source of quiet pride—proof that alternative lifestyles need not mean abandoning intellectual pursuits.

The men's return brought news of smooth screening success and additional commerce—board games that had entertained us through Tasmanian winters now passing to new owners met at the city's edge. Each sale represented conscious curation of our possessions, keeping only what served multiple purposes or brought irreplaceable joy. The cash from these transactions would fund groceries, diesel, the small expenses that kept our journey flowing forward.

"Both screened successfully," Anth reported with satisfaction. "Smooth as silk."

Yet Torrin's dawn flight loomed, requiring strategic positioning for airport proximity. WikiCamps and Google Maps offered various suggestions, but nothing resonated with our instincts for appropriate overnight sanctuary. Sometimes digital wisdom fell short of intuitive navigation, prompting us to simply drive and trust that suitable spot would reveal itself—a practice that rarely disappointed.

Hunger intervened before solution, the men's pre-screening fast demanding immediate attention. The pizza shop appeared like an oasis, its warm interior and aromatic offerings providing perfect pause for recalibration. Over shared slices, we discussed options while cheese stretched between bites, the simple pleasure of hot food after enforced abstinence adding sweetness to our planning session.

"There," Anth pointed through the window toward a quiet street. "That looks promising."

Indeed, our instincts proved reliable. The spot materialised less than fifteen minutes from the airport—a discrete position beside a neighbourhood park, apartment buildings providing urban camouflage while streetlight offered security without intrusion. We'd become expert at reading these urban margins, finding pockets where our presence would pass unnoticed, where morning departure would leave no trace of our temporary occupation.

One final transaction punctuated our evening as another board game buyer arrived, their headlights briefly illuminating our compact domesticity. They admired our setup with the particular interest of someone who understood alternative living, asking questions about solar panels and water systems while completing their purchase. These encounters with curious strangers had become regular feature of our journey, each interaction spreading seeds of possibility about different ways to inhabit the world.

"Living the dream," they said with genuine appreciation before departing with their game.

Dawn arrived with purpose rather than leisure. The airport run had become familiar ritual—family members flowing in and out of our nomadic orbit as their own lives permitted. Torrin's stay had been characteristically brief but densely packed with shared experience, his presence adding different energy to our mobile constellation. At the departure drop-off, our farewell carried the weight of practice—we'd become expert at these temporary separations, understanding that our unconventional family structure meant constant cycles of gathering and dispersing.

The morning stretched before us with unexpected possibility. Our original plan had targeted the Otways once more—those ancient forests calling us back to their ferned embrace. Yet as we sat over coffee, maps spread across our phones, different magnetism pulled our compass needle northward. The Murray River beckoned from the top of Victoria, that mighty waterway where we'd paused so briefly at our nomadic journey's beginning, when everything was new and uncertain.

"What about going north instead?" Sal suggested, voicing what we'd both been thinking. "Back to the Murray, but this time knowing what we're doing."

The decision made itself with the fluid ease that characterised our best choices. But first, Green's Lake—that peaceful sanctuary where Sal and Sophie had sheltered during the men's previous trial, where mother-daughter bonds had strengthened over shared solitude and academic focus. The circular nature of these returns appealed to us, revisiting places with accumulated wisdom, seeing familiar landscapes through eyes educated by eighteen months of wandering.

Our route would trace memory's path backward—Green's Lake's quiet waters reflecting not just sky but our own transformation since last visiting. Then northward to the Murray, that river which had witnessed our tentative first steps into nomadic life, when we still questioned whether this radical lifestyle change would prove sustainable. Now we would return as seasoned travelers, our bus no longer unfamiliar vessel but trusted home, our movements guided by experience rather than experiment.

As we navigated away from Melbourne's gravitational pull once more, the familiar satisfaction of departure filled our small cabin. Cities served their purpose—trials and reunions, supplies and services—but our souls calibrated to different frequencies. The forest camp already felt like distant memory, Torrin's presence already shifting from current to recent, our journey's next chapter already writing itself in the space between where we'd been and where we were going.

The beauty of our lifestyle revealed itself most clearly in moments like these—when plans could shift with weather's fluidity, when return wasn't retreat but intentional spiral, when every ending became beginning. Green's Lake awaited with its promise of peaceful pause, the Murray beyond that with its ancient flow, and somewhere further still, adventures we couldn't yet imagine but trusted would reveal themselves exactly when needed.Read more