Swans, Storms, and Solitude

The return journey carried singular purpose—Sal's university workshops demanded Melbourne presence for two nights of intensive learning, the academic obligations that punctuated our nomadic existence with necessary structure. The practice run from the previous week had transformed Melbourne's labyrinthine public transport into navigable network, her confidence with trams and trains now sufficient for solo exploration. Emily, her university companion known only through pixels and online lectures until now, had offered accommodation—the digital friendship about to manifest in physical hospitality.

At Echuca's familiar station, we performed our temporary separation ritual. The V-Line platform stretched before Sal like a bridge between worlds, three-plus hours of rail travel ahead while she journeyed toward academic immersion. Anth watched the train depart with mixed emotions—pride in Sal's newfound transport independence competing with the hollow feeling that always accompanied their separations, however brief.

"See you in two days," had been their parting words, simple phrase carrying weight of routine that still felt somehow unnatural after decades of daily companionship.

Alone with the bus, Anth headed east along the Murray's course, seeking sanctuary for his unexpected bachelor camping. The riverside spots he discovered would have seemed ideal under different circumstances—level ground, river access, reasonable shelter. But memory of our recent forest perfection rendered these alternatives somehow inadequate. Each potential camp suffered by comparison to that magical clearing we'd discovered just before Sal's departure, the spot found through drone reconnaissance that had promised something special.

"Why settle for adequate when perfect is only thirty minutes away?" Anth reasoned to himself, already turning the bus back toward Perricoota Forest.

The drive felt different in solitude—no conversation to fill the kilometres, just the diesel engine's familiar rumble and his own thoughts for company. Yet returning to that special clearing felt like coming home to a secret garden, the spot so close to our previous camp yet offering entirely fresh perspective on the Murray's flow. This time, with nobody to consult, Anth positioned the bus with obsessive precision—achieving perfect alignment between sunrise angles, river views, and satellite reception. The luxury of solo decision-making brought its own satisfaction, every choice reflecting personal preference without negotiation.

This new position revealed itself as avian paradise beyond our previous spot's offerings. Sulphur-crested cockatoos maintained their raucous presence—perhaps the same birds, perhaps cousins, their harsh cries creating continuity between camps. But here, the river's particular curve attracted different water birds. Greater Grebes performed their aquatic ballet, diving beneath the surface with barely a ripple before emerging impossible distances away, their fishing success evident in the small silver tributes they swallowed.

Evening brought unexpected magic when a pair of Black Swans materialised just as dusk painted the river copper. They appeared like mythology made real, their dark elegance contrasting with the fading light, moving across the water with grace that seemed choreographed. Anth sat transfixed, wishing Sal could witness this moment, already planning how he'd describe it upon her return. As darkness completed its claim, a Mopoke owl announced its presence—that distinctive 'mopoke' call that had provided soundtrack to countless Australian nights but never lost its charm.

Morning revealed another surprise visitor—an Azure Kingfisher claiming hunting rights along the shoreline mere metres from the bus. This jewelled creature, with its electric blue back and orange breast, represented the kind of wildlife encounter that validated every moment of our nomadic choice. The bird seemed utterly unconcerned by Anth's presence, focusing instead on the serious business of breakfast acquisition, its successful strikes creating tiny splashes that caught the morning light.

Two days of solitary river watching passed in contemplative peace. Anth found unexpected pleasure in the silence—not lonely but luxuriously spacious, allowing thoughts to expand without interruption. He prepared simple meals, read without distraction, watched the river's moods shift through the day's progression. This wasn't the isolation of his trial confinement but chosen solitude in a place of profound beauty.

When the time came to collect Sal from Echuca Station, Anth fairly vibrated with anticipation—not just for reunion but to share this discovered paradise. Her emergence from the train carried its own energy, two days of intensive workshops having filled her with new knowledge and connections. Emily had proven delightful in person, their online friendship translating seamlessly into real-world rapport. The workshops themselves had exceeded expectations—dense with applicable knowledge, challenging in the best way, pushing her closer to Masters completion.

"How was your spot?" Sal asked as we drove back toward the forest, her voice carrying the particular exhaustion that comes from sustained mental effort.

"Wait until you see it," Anth replied, unable to suppress his excitement. "The birds alone are worth the journey."

Arriving back at the riverside clearing felt like proper homecoming. Sal immediately understood Anth's enthusiasm—the positioning was indeed perfect, offering unobstructed river views while maintaining the intimate forest embrace. We settled into familiar evening routines, but now with stories to exchange—Sal's academic adventures balancing Anth's wildlife encounters, our separate experiences weaving back into shared narrative.

With Queensland flight still a week and a half distant, we made the decision to remain here until departure. Sam and Eddie, whose property we'd house-sat two months earlier, had graciously agreed to shelter the bus during our absence—the relief of knowing our entire home would rest secure while we flew north providing peace of mind that made the upcoming separation bearable.

Days assumed their own river rhythm, each beginning with sunrise painting the Murray gold while mist rose like spirits from the water. Our isolation felt complete and perfect— no other humans discovered our secret refuge, leaving us sole witnesses to daily dramas—the grebes continuing their fishing expeditions (though the kingfisher never reappeared after that single magical morning), cockatoos maintaining raucous commentary, occasional boats providing brief entertainment before silence reclaimed the water.

Midway through our stay, nature provided unexpected drama. Storm clouds built throughout the afternoon with theatrical intensity, their purple-black mass transforming daylight into premature dusk. Thunder rolled across the forest—not the sharp crack of nearby strikes but the prolonged rumble of distant power. When rain arrived, it came as deluge rather than shower, drops so heavy they bounced off the river's surface, creating a layer of splash that blurred the boundary between air and water.

The storm passed as quickly as it had arrived, leaving behind that particular atmosphere of world-washed-clean. The forest erupted with post-storm celebration—birds that had sheltered in silence now burst into cacophonous chorus, every species seemingly compelled to comment on the weather's drama. The trees themselves seemed more alive, their leaves glittering with captured raindrops, the very air carrying that distinctive petrichor that made every breath feel medicinal.

"Listen to that," Sal marvelled as the forest's symphony reached crescendo. "It's like everything was holding its breath and now can finally sing."

The weekend brought different kind of performance. Melbourne Cup holiday had released the city's inhabitants, sending them searching for recreation wherever water met land. The Murray transformed from peaceful river into aquatic highway—water skiers carving precise wakes, jet skis screaming past in mechanical fury, boats of every size claiming their portion of river. Children's laughter echoed across from the Victorian side, their joy infectious even at distance.

Our secluded spot remained mysteriously undiscovered, as if protected by benevolent spirits who understood our need for space. Yet rather than resenting the intrusion, we found themselves entertained by the human theatre playing out on water. Watching families create memories, observing the ballet of boats avoiding collision, listening to the soundtrack of Australian leisure—it all became part of their weekend entertainment, nature documentary replaced by anthropological observation.

"It's actually quite mesmerising," Sal observed, watching a water skier execute perfect slalom runs. "Like watching fish, but louder and wearing wetsuits."

Throughout our stay, Anth monitored weather forecasts with particular attention. The tracks leading to our riverside sanctuary, barely passable in dry conditions, would transform into impassable bog with significant rain. The clay soil that supported us now would become treacherous adhesive, capable of trapping anything without high clearance and four-wheel drive. Our departure timing required careful calculation—too early meant sacrificing precious river days, too late risked imprisonment by weather.

Fortune favoured our planning. Departure morning brought light rain—enough to slick the surface but insufficient to create the feared mud. We packed early, securing everything with extra care knowing the tracks would test our preparations. The forest felt expectant in early light, as if it too sensed approaching weather.

The drive out required concentration on the rain-slicked dirt, our tyres occasionally struggling for purchase but never quite losing grip. We navigated carefully, grateful for our timing—another hour of rain would have made passage impossible without four-wheel drive. As sealed road appeared beneath our wheels, we exhaled collectively, another successful negotiation with weather's whims. The Murray had held us four times now in different embraces, each revealing new facets of its ancient character. This last gift—discovered by accident, perfected by patience, enriched by solitude and storms—felt even more precious for being unexpected.

"We'll be back," Sal stated with certainty as they reached the sealed road, looking back toward the hidden river. "The Murray isn't finished with us yet."

Indeed, the river would continue its patient flow whether we witnessed it or not, but something in its eternal movement had synchronised with our own journey's rhythm. Queensland called with family obligations and birthday celebrations, our bus would rest safe at Sam and Eddie's, but part of us would remain here beside the Murray—watching kingfishers hunt, listening for mopoke owls, waiting for black swans to emerge from dusk's embrace.Read more