City Circuits and Forest Returns

The dirt track led us away from the Murray's ancient flow, dust clouds rising in our wake as we retraced familiar paths toward practical necessities. Back through Echuca's historic streets—those paddle-steamer boulevards that had witnessed gold rush prosperity—then south once more to Rochester, where Australia Post finally held our last captive package.

We returned once more to Echuca and the V-Line station where we positioned our golden home in the station car park with careful consideration—visible from the platform yet unobtrusive, our mobile sanctuary waiting patiently for our return like a faithful hound. The vulnerability of leaving our entire life unattended in public space never quite disappeared, though experience had proven most fears unfounded.

"She'll be fine here," Anth assured, though we both glanced back repeatedly as we walked toward the platform, that invisible tether between us and our wheeled freedom stretching but never breaking.

The train arrived with diesel rumble and regional reliability, carrying us from riverside tranquility toward metropolitan complexity. This journey served dual purpose beyond Anth's medical appointment—equally important was Sal's reconnaissance mission for her upcoming solo university workshops. The tram system that would soon carry her alone through Melbourne's arteries needed demystifying while support remained available.

Melbourne revealed itself in layers as the V-Line carried us through outer suburbs toward the urban core. Each station brought increasing density—weatherboard houses giving way to townhouses, then apartments, then the vertical thrust of the CBD itself. The transition felt almost violent after weeks of horizontal landscapes and empty horizons, our eyes struggling to adjust to the vertical plane of city existence.

The tram from Southern Cross Station provided Sal's practical education. Anth guided with patient expertise born from multiple trial participations, explaining the mysteries of myki cards and route numbers, the subtle art of securing seats during peak hour, the unspoken etiquette of public transport navigation. Sal absorbed each lesson with focused attention, her confidence building with each successful stop, each correct transfer.

"It's actually quite logical once you understand the pattern," Sal observed, her initial apprehension dissolving into competence. The prospect of navigating alone next week no longer carried the weight of anxiety it had just hours earlier.

The hotel near the screening facility—that modest establishment Anth had come to know through repeated stays—represented familiar compromise. Nothing fancy but reliably clean, a bed that didn't move with wind, and most importantly, unlimited hot water. That evening's shower felt almost decadent, both of us standing longer than necessary under the heated cascade, washing away not just physical accumulation but the subtle tension that came with urban re-entry.

Dawn brought medical efficiency. Anth's early screening proceeded with practiced smoothness—blood drawn, vital signs recorded, questionnaires completed with the automatic responses of someone who'd navigated this process countless times. The possibility of trial acceptance dangled like a golden carrot, promising funding for months of future adventures if medical lottery fell in our favour.

"All done," Anth emerged after what seemed like minutes rather than hours. "Perfect timing—we can catch the earlier V-Line back."

The public transport system that had seemed labyrinthine just yesterday now revealed itself as navigable network, another skill added to our growing repertoire of nomadic competencies.

Our bus waited exactly as we'd left it, faithful and patient in the Echuca car park. The relief at returning to our mobile sanctuary surprised us with its intensity—keys turning in familiar locks, our compact space welcoming us back like an embrace. This was home in ways no hotel room could replicate, every surface known, every system understood, every corner holding memory and purpose.

"Should we try somewhere new?" Sal suggested as we secured groceries in their designated spaces. 35 The Murray stretched for thousands of kilometres, most of it unexplored by our wheels.

WikiCamps revealed intriguing possibility across the river—New South Wales and a state forest camping with no amenities, no crowds, just bush and solitude. The absence of facilities that might deter others attracted us precisely because it promised isolation. After days of medical necessities and urban immersion, we craved the simplicity of trees and silence. The listing described dispersed camping in native forest, the perfect antidote to Melbourne's sensory assault.

The bridge over the Murray carried us between states with casual authority, this river border meaning little to anyone except bureaucrats and football fans. As we crossed that flowing boundary, leaving Victoria temporarily behind for New South Wales' embrace, we felt the familiar anticipation of new territory waiting to be discovered. The mighty Murray flowed beneath us, unchanged since our first nervous crossing eighteen months ago, yet we who crossed it had been transformed entirely by the journey between then and now.Read more