Between States and Rivers

The NSW border welcomed us with subtle atmospheric shift—something indefinable changing as we left Victoria behind, even temporarily. Through Moama's quiet streets we navigated, this riverside town wearing its border-town identity with understated confidence, existing in permanent dialogue with Echuca across the water yet maintaining its own distinct character.

Perricoota State Forest had emerged from WikiCamps research as promising sanctuary—vast tracts of bushland where camping existed without infrastructure or oversight, just clearings among trees for those who preferred solitude to facilities. The entrance track drew us into corridors of black box woodland, these darker cousins of river red gums creating their own particular atmosphere, more shadowed and secretive than the open river forests we'd recently left.

Our chosen clearing revealed itself through subtle signs rather than obvious markers—flattened earth where previous visitors had established temporary residence, a blackened fire circle confirming this as accepted camping territory. We positioned ourselves right next to the river, unobstructed views of the Murray's flow filling our windows. The water moved just metres from where we parked, its presence immediate and commanding, the sound of current against bank providing constant soundtrack. Here was camping reduced to fundamental elements: earth to park on, trees for shelter, river for contemplation.

"This feels right," Sal confirmed, already mentally arranging our setup for optimal satellite reception and sunrise viewing across the water.

The complete absence of amenities—no tables, toilets, or taps—transformed limitation into creative freedom. We could arrange our temporary home according to personal preference rather than prescribed layout, our bus becoming the sole architectural element in otherwise unmarked landscape. Through our wraparound windows, black box forest pressed close on one side while the Murray dominated the other view, its broad surface catching light differently throughout the day—silver at dawn, deep brown by noon, gold at sunset.

The river's proximity offered unexpected luxury—unlimited water for non-drinking purposes. Anth seized this opportunity to wash our golden home properly for the first time since the housesit weeks earlier. Bucket after bucket drawn from the Murray transformed dust-caked surfaces back to their original shine. He worked methodically, particular attention paid to the windows that served as our viewing portals to the world. Layers of Victorian dust dissolved under river water's attention, each panel emerging crystal clear.

"I know it'll be dusty again before we even reach the main road," Anth acknowledged, wringing out his cloth, "but clean windows make all the difference for actually seeing what we came to see."

The irony wasn't lost on us—using ancient river water to clean modern vehicle, temporary clarity before inevitable return to dust-covered travel. Yet this act of maintenance felt almost ceremonial, caring for the home that carried us through endless adventures, showing respect for the machine that had proven so reliable across thousands of kilometres.

Evening's arrival brought profound darkness, the absence of any artificial light creating conditions where stars multiplied beyond counting. Sitting beside our small fire, we marveled at the day's journey—from Melbourne hotel through medical facilities to this unmarked forest clearing. These radical transitions had become so routine we sometimes forgot their philosophical weight, the privilege of moving between worlds that most people kept forever separate.

Victoria's weather systems ignored political boundaries with characteristic disregard. Our first days brought winter's lingering grip—jumpers essential, diesel heater earning its keep, extra blankets deployed against nights that belonged more to August than October. Then, with theatrical timing, summer preview arrived—temperatures soaring until we contemplated our air conditioning for the first time this trip, the mercury climbing toward levels that had us seeking shade by midday.

"Typical Victoria," Sal laughed, adjusting clothing for the third time that day. "Four seasons in forty-eight hours, doesn't matter which state you're technically in."

The cockatoos that had soundtracked our Masters Landing stay seemed to have established franchise operations here. Logic insisted these were different birds—the hour's drive representing mere minutes for airborne travelers—but their familiar harsh calls and acrobatic performances created continuity between camps. They announced each dawn with reliability that made alarms redundant, their white forms stark against black box foliage.

This forest carried drier character than our recent riverside camps. The understory remained sparse, creating clear sightlines between dark trunks. Wildlife appeared sporadically rather than abundantly—a single mob of grey kangaroos ghosting through morning shadows, their passage noted but brief, as if this woodland served as corridor rather than destination for local fauna.

Sal's academic obligations continued despite our bush setting. Her first assessment uploaded successfully via Starlink—technology enabling scholarship from locations previous generations couldn't have imagined. The second assignment, though complete, would wait for strategic submission after her Melbourne workshops. This decision reflected growing confidence in her judgment, no longer rushing to meet deadlines but choosing optimal timing for best results.

Days dissolved into Murray time—that particular temporal flow where river rhythm overrides clock convention. Our position right at water level created intimacy with the river that our previous elevated camps hadn't provided. We could distinguish individual bird calls across the water, observe fish creating expanding circles at dawn and dusk, watch debris float past at the river's unhurried pace. This close positioning made us participants rather than observers in the Murray's daily cycles, the water's presence as immediate as if we were aboard a houseboat rather than land-based vehicle.

Nearly a week passed in this gentle suspension before obligations summoned. Sal's university workshops required Melbourne presence—her first train journey rather than flight to these mandatory gatherings. The shift from Queensland flights during our Tasmanian period to Victorian train travel marked another evolution in our nomadic adaptations.

Departure morning brought unexpected discovery. A forest track we'd noted earlier warranted investigation—Anth's drone reconnaissance from days before had identified potential camping spot barely a kilometre distant. The detour revealed another perfect clearing, equally private but offering slightly different river access, filed away for future reference with quiet satisfaction.

"Next time," we agreed, the phrase carrying certainty rather than wishful thinking. This forest would see us again.

Perricoota had provided exactly what urban immersion demanded as antidote—unmarked space where we could exist without witness or judgment, where days followed internal rather than external rhythm, where the Murray's ancient flow reminded us that human urgency meant nothing to geological time. The black box forest would continue its quiet existence regardless of our presence or absence, but for this week we'd been absorbed into its shadows, temporary residents in permanent landscape, our freshly washed bus gleaming briefly before dust reclaimed its surfaces.

The return journey would carry us back through Moama toward whatever came next, but Perricoota had earned its place in our expanding catalogue of meaningful coordinates. Not for spectacular features or unique attractions, but for providing exactly what we needed precisely when required—simple sanctuary where academic work could progress, buses could be washed with river water, and the Murray could flow past our spotless windows with patient indifference to human concerns.Read more