The Murray's Patient Classroom

With food reserves completely depleted—our final wraps consumed that morning, the last coffee grounds surrendering their essence to breakfast ritual—Echuca beckoned with practical urgency. The riverside town had transformed from mere waypoint into vital resupply hub, its supermarkets and services now familiar territory after repeated visits. We moved through aisles with practiced efficiency, our trolley filling with provisions calculated against water capacity and Anth's upcoming Melbourne rescreening, each item chosen for versatility and longevity in our mobile pantry.

Leaving Echuca, we turned west to follow the Murray downstream, that ancient waterway whose patient flow had witnessed the extremes of our mainland journey. The river road wound between red gums and black box trees, occasionally revealing glimpses of the Murray's broad sweep through gaps in vegetation. Gunbower National Park stretched ahead—thousands of hectares of river forest and wetlands where hundreds of free camps dotted the Murray's meandering course. Among this embarrassment of riches, we'd chosen Masters Landing through careful WikiCamps research, its reviews promising solitude and river access without the crowds that plagued more accessible sites.

The entrance track led through towering black box trees whose dark canopy created shadowed tunnels, dust motes dancing in occasional shafts of afternoon sun. As we emerged at the camping area, an unexpected gift revealed itself—complete emptiness. Not a single vehicle occupied the sprawling riverside flat, as if the universe had reserved this entire sanctuary exclusively for our arrival. The embankment characteristic of this Murray region rose beside the river, flood mitigation engineering that inadvertently created elevated viewing platforms for those who knew where to position themselves.

"This is perfect," Sal breathed, surveying the open expanse with eyes that had learned to read landscapes for optimal camping. "Absolutely perfect."

Our golden Coaster possessed the feature that had initially seduced us into this nomadic life—full windows on both sides and rear, creating near-360-degree visibility broken only by the cab wall. This panoramic architecture had been the deciding factor when choosing our mobile home, transforming camping from mere overnight parking into immersive natural theatre. We positioned ourselves with deliberate precision atop the embankment's gentle slope, always aligning our panoramic views for maximum impact. Through the left windows, black box bushland stretched into darkness, their twisted forms creating organic sculptures against the sky. Through the right, the Murray flowed in its ancient rhythm, surface occasionally broken by jumping fish or gliding waterbirds.

Setting up camp had evolved into ritual so refined that completion took mere minutes—chairs positioned for sunset viewing, solar panels angled for morning harvest, outdoor kitchen established in the wind shadow. Some nights, the Firebox Freestyle emerged from storage when we craved the primal satisfaction of flame-cooked food. These evenings—sausages sizzling over wood coals, chicken developing that particular char only open fire provides—connected us to camping's essential traditions. The smoke that seasoned our meals carried essence of fallen branches and river air, each dinner becoming ceremony that honoured both place and process.

Wildlife arrived to inspect their new neighbours with characteristic Australian boldness. Sulphur-crested cockatoos became our constant companions, their harsh cries announcing dawn with reliability that rendered alarms redundant. These raucous birds, with their punk-rock crests and intelligent eyes, treated the surrounding trees as performance venues—hanging upside down from branches, conducting aerial arguments, their cacophony providing soundtrack to our days. Though they kept their distance from our camp itself, their presence remained constant, white forms against dark leaves like notes on nature's musical score.

Above the water, whistling kites prowled with patient persistence, following the river's course upstream and down in endless patrol. We watched them cruise on thermal currents, their distinctive calls piercing the air as they searched for opportunity below. Though we never witnessed successful strikes, their presence added drama to the riverscape, prehistoric silhouettes against clouds that shifted from grey to gold with passing hours.

Sal had entered the crucial phase of assignment completion, her university deadlines creating temporal boundaries within our otherwise fluid existence. We'd deliberately slowed our nomadic pace to accommodate her academic needs, choosing camps based on duration rather than variety. Our movements now followed water supply rather than wanderlust—when tanks ran low, we'd move; until then, we'd remain. This enforced stillness at Masters Landing revealed unexpected depths in familiar rhythms. The Murray's voice changed throughout the day—morning whispers, afternoon conversations, evening soliloquies—each phase offering different wisdom to those who listened.

"I need at least three more solid days," Sal announced, surveying her workload against our water gauge. "Can we stretch it?"

Without onboard shower facilities, water conservation came naturally. Each drop allocated with consideration, drinking and cooking prioritised over convenience. This conscious consumption connected us more deeply to our environment, transforming resource management from limitation into mindful practice.

Several days had passed in this productive tranquility when curiosity prompted exploration. Other campers had come and gone, staying single nights before continuing their journeys, but we'd grown attached to our embankment throne. Still, we wondered what other perspectives the Murray might offer along its extensive course. We drove both upstream and downstream, investigating three or four alternative sites that WikiCamps had marked as possibilities.

Each location offered its own character, yet they were all simply open spots on riverbanks, pleasant enough but lacking the particular combination that made Masters Landing special. None matched our spot's elevation advantage, crucial for solar panel efficiency. None provided the clear sky access our Starlink required for Sal's university work. Most importantly, none offered that perfect duality of bushland and river views that our wraparound windows could frame like living artwork.

"Nothing compares to what we already have," Anth confirmed as we returned to reclaim our position, relief evident that no newcomers had claimed our territory during reconnaissance.

Meanwhile, a mechanical ghost that had haunted us for over a year demanded exorcism. The rear airbag issue—first noticed in Zeehan during Grammy and Fran's Tasmanian visit—had persisted like an expensive shadow over our travels. Professional mechanics had quoted astronomical figures for complete system replacement, their estimates capable of funding months of fuel and food. But Anth's mechanical intuition, combined with methodical research and creative problem-solving, had finally yielded breakthrough.

"I've figured out a workaround," he announced one afternoon, emerging from beneath the bus with the particular satisfaction that comes from defeating expensive problems with ingenuity. "Zero cost, just needs manual adjustment instead of automatic."

The solution—elegantly simple once understood—bypassed the faulty automatic leveling system entirely. Rather than expensive electronic repairs, strategic manual intervention would maintain proper ride height. This victory felt particularly sweet given the problem's duration and the looming Melbourne rescreening deadline that made mechanical reliability essential.

Days at Masters Landing flowed like the river beside us—steady, purposeful, unhurried. Morning coffee consumed while watching mist rise from the Murray's surface. Midday heat driving us inside where academic work progressed in cooler comfort. Afternoon walks along the embankment, discovering new angles on familiar views, black box shadows lengthening as sun descended. Evening meals prepared on the Firebox when weather permitted, smoke mingling with river mist as darkness reclaimed the landscape.

The approaching Melbourne rescreening created our only temporal boundary—Anth's appointment representing both obligation and opportunity, potential trial participation promising funding for future adventures. But until that departure demanded action, we remained suspended in productive pause, the Murray flowing endlessly past our windows while assignments approached completion and mechanical problems yielded to persistent innovation.

This was the rhythm we'd learned to love—not constant movement but conscious stillness, not endless novelty but deepening appreciation for chosen spots. Masters Landing had provided exactly what we needed precisely when required: stable platform for academic focus, peaceful environment for mechanical problem-solving, and that rare combination of accessibility and isolation that made extended stays possible. The cockatoos would continue their harsh serenades whether we stayed or departed, the kites would patrol regardless of witnesses, the Murray would flow with or without our observation. But for these precious days, we were part of this riverine ecosystem, temporary residents in permanent landscape, our bus windows framing scenes that would linger in memory long after wheels resumed their turning.Read more