Ducklings, Deadlines, and Delays

The small town of Rochester materialised through morning mist, its practical offerings—post office, supermarket, fuel station—providing necessary waypoint for our nomadic logistics. We had scheduled four parcels to arrive here, modern conveniences reaching us through this rural collection point that had become temporary anchor in our fluid existence. The post office clerk greeted us with apologetic expression—only two of our expected four packages had materialised, the replacement tablet for our home automation dashboard and fresh protein powder waiting patiently while their companions remained somewhere in Australia Post's mysterious network.

"Seems to be the season for delayed parcels," we muttered, remembering Torrin's packages that had toured Victoria for weeks before finding their destinations.

The missing items—components crucial for Anth's ongoing transformation of our bus into smart home on wheels—meant we couldn't simply continue northward to the Murray River as planned. With our intended camp still an hour distant, practicality suggested finding intermediate sanctuary while awaiting postal resolution. WikiCamps revealed Aysons Reserve on the Campaspe River, a mere ten minutes south of Rochester—close enough for to return to the post office when required, yet removed enough to offer proper bush camping.

We stocked up on what we assumed would be a few days' worth of provisions, our shopping trolley reflecting modest expectations for this brief detention. The Campaspe River, we discovered, held its own quiet magic. The reserve stretched along the water's edge, attracting predominantly grey nomads in their substantial caravans who clustered near the amenities block with its promise of convenient facilities. We navigated past these suburban recreations, seeking something more aligned with our preference for natural immersion.

"There," Sal pointed toward the reserve's far boundary. "Right on the river's edge."

Indeed, the spot revealed itself like a gift—positioned at the very extremity of the camping area where the Campaspe curved in gentle arc, creating private river access from our chosen position. No neighbours pressed close, the nearest caravan a comfortable distance that preserved mutual privacy. The river itself ran clear and peaceful, its banks lined with river red gums whose roots created natural terraces down to the water. This quintessential Australian bush river scene unfolded directly from our windows—tinted glass that allowed us to observe without being observed, creating perfect wildlife blind.

"This'll do nicely for a night," Anth said, already calculating optimal positioning for morning sun and evening river views.

Friday arrived with continued postal disappointment—the packages remained in transit limbo, their tracking information offering vague promises without concrete delivery dates. Our single night would necessarily stretch across the weekend, but rather than frustration, we felt unexpected relief. The weekend crowds would depart, leaving us with riverfront solitude. Our position had already begun working its subtle magic, the enforced pause transforming from inconvenience into opportunity.

The weekend's exodus delivered as predicted, caravans departing in Sunday afternoon convoy. That's when we truly discovered what Aysons Reserve had been quietly offering—a front-row seat to nature's intimate theatre. A pair of Wood Ducks had chosen the reeds near our camp as nursery, their clutch of ducklings barely days old. These tiny balls of fluff, twelve in total, provided endless entertainment as they navigated their aquatic world with determination that belied their diminutive size.

Each morning brought the same anxious ritual—counting tiny heads to ensure all twelve had survived the night. We'd watch from our windows as the parent ducks conducted their own morning census, leading their offspring in single file along the riverbank. The relief when all twelve appeared, bobbing like animated cotton balls on the water, became part of our daily emotional rhythm. These small survivals against nocturnal predators and natural hazards felt like personal victories, as if our witnessing somehow contributed to their protection.

"All twelve present and accounted for," Sal would announce with satisfaction after the morning count, the duckling parade passing our camp in perfect formation.

The weekend ebbed into weekdays with liquid grace, our temporary detention evolving into chosen residence. The weather, as if celebrating spring's arrival combined with our northern inland position, delivered near perfection. This meteorological generosity felt like compensation for Victoria's previous cold and wind, nature apologising with this gift of ideal conditions.

Sal immersed herself in her new role with Ritual Movement, the online fitness company position that had emerged from Kara Kara's serendipity. Her laptop claimed permanent position at our table, Starlink providing reliable connection that transformed our riverside camp into professional office. The work aligned perfectly with our lifestyle—coaching women through their fitness journeys while living our own unconventional adventure. Between client sessions, university assignments demanded attention, the final push toward trimester completion requiring focused effort despite the river's constant invitation to abandon academia for exploration.

"This is actually perfect," Sal observed during one afternoon break, watching sunlight dance across the water while her laptop hummed with client communications. "Better than any office view I've ever had."

Anth received positive news about his recent screening, yet after consideration, he made the decision that family trumped finance—he would skip this trial to ensure availability for Torrin's birthday celebration and New Zealand send-off. The Te Araroa trail beckoned their son toward solo adventure, that thousand-mile traverse of New Zealand requiring proper farewell. Some moments couldn't be reclaimed, some occasions demanded presence over profit.

Days accumulated with surprising speed. What began as overnight pause had stretched toward a full week, our one-day food supply requiring creative rationing and eventual supplementation. The Campaspe held us in its gentle embrace, each sunset painting the river gold, each morning bringing successful duckling counts, each day proving that sometimes the universe's delays delivered exactly what we didn't know we needed.

When one package finally arrived—not all, but enough to justify departure—we faced unexpected reluctance. Six nights had transformed Aysons Reserve from unwanted detention to treasured sanctuary. The Campaspe River had provided something we hadn't realised we'd been missing—extended stillness without obligation, productivity without pressure, nature's entertainment without effort. Our dwindling supplies and single package provided excuse rather than reason for departure, but the Murray River called from the north, and Echuca promised proper resupply for whatever adventures lay ahead.

Our final morning arrived with bittersweet recognition. We conducted our last duckling census—all twelve still miraculously present, slightly larger and more confident than when we'd first met them. The parent ducks performed their morning parade as if providing farewell performance, leading their offspring past our camp one last time. We packed with unusual slowness, each item secured with care that suggested reluctance rather than efficiency. The Campaspe had surprised us—this modest river we'd never heard of before necessity brought us to its banks had provided perfect interlude between adventures.

"Safe travels, little ones," Sal whispered to the ducklings through the window as we prepared to leave. Their survival remained uncertain—predators, weather, and countless hazards awaited—but for one week we'd been privileged witnesses to their earliest adventures, their first explorations of a world vast beyond their comprehension.

As we drove north toward Echuca, following the Campaspe's path toward its confluence with the Murray, we carried more than just our partially complete parcel collection. We carried memories of perfect spring days beside an unassuming river, of tiny ducklings brave beyond their size, of work accomplished in the most beautiful office imaginable. Aysons Reserve had transformed from postal purgatory to paradise found, proving once again that our journey's best moments often emerged from delays and diversions, that sometimes the universe's timing surpassed our own planning's wisdom.

The Murray River awaited with its ancient flow and grander reputation, but the little Campaspe had earned its place in our hearts. Some stops were destinations, others mere waypoints. Aysons Reserve had been scheduled as neither but became both—a perfect pause that reminded us why we'd chosen this life of fluid plans and flexible expectations, where six nights by an unknown river could become treasured chapter in our ever-expanding story.Read more