To Find the Wild

Five nights stretched before us like a bridge between togetherness and temporary division—Anth bound for his month-long trial confinement, Sal destined for Queensland via girlfriend reunions in Canberra, our golden home accompanying her on the solo journey. This looming separation coloured every decision with subtle urgency, each shared meal and evening conversation carrying weight of impending absence. We'd chosen Albury-Wodonga as our departure point, that border city straddling two states serving as appropriate crossroads for paths diverging.

Our strategy reflected the precious nature of remaining time—single-night camps allowing us to sample different locations without commitment, nomadic tasting menu before the enforced fast of separation. Each spot would be brief encounter rather than deep acquaintance, movement prioritised over stillness as we navigated toward our inevitable parting.

Through Shepparton we drove, its commercial strips and suburban sprawl sliding past our windows with barely a glance. The conversation that emerged as we traversed this regional centre crystallised something fundamental about our chosen existence. Towns, we realised with sudden clarity, had become mere waypoints in our journey—practical necessities for diesel and groceries, nothing more. Our wanderlust pulled us through these urban spaces toward wild places, not the reverse. Where others might drive through nature to reach civilisation's comfort, we endured civilisation to reach nature's embrace.

"We're backwards to most people," Sal observed as another shopping centre faded behind us. "They holiday in wild places but live in towns. We live in wild places and visit towns only when absolutely necessary."

This inversion of conventional priorities had happened so gradually we'd barely noticed the shift. Somewhere between leaving Brisbane and now, our internal compass had recalibrated. Urban spaces that once represented security now felt constraining, their noise and density something to escape rather than embrace. The wild places—rivers and forests, coastal camps and mountain clearings—had become our true habitat, where souls expanded and time moved according to natural rather than commercial rhythms.

Beyond Shepparton's final suburbs, the landscape began its transformation back toward the rural character we craved. Paddocks replaced pavements, horizons expanded, and that particular quality of Australian light—unfiltered by urban haze—returned to paint everything in sharper relief. Anth had marked Murchison Reserve in our digital atlas weeks earlier, noting its position on the Goulburn River as potentially promising should we ever pass this way.

The turn-off to Murchison village appeared almost apologetically, as if the town itself understood it was merely gateway to something more significant. Through the settlement we navigated, its handful of essential services clustered along the main street before surrendering once again to rural expanse. The reserve entrance revealed itself through typical Australian bush signage—understated brown markers that promised little but often delivered much.

Weekend timing meant we weren't alone in seeking riverside sanctuary. Four-wheel drives clustered along the water's edge, their owners having claimed prime positions with aggressive territoriality that suggested arrival at dawn or earlier. These waterfront sites, accessible only to high-clearance vehicles, created exclusive zone where our bus couldn't venture even if space existed. This enforced separation from the weekend crowd suited our temperament perfectly, allowing observation without participation in the subtle social negotiations of shared camping spaces.

The afternoon light transformed the reserve into something approaching magic. Golden hour arrived with theatrical precision, sun angles creating cathedral light through the river red gums while the Goulburn reflected sky colours we couldn't name but only feel. A pair of kookaburras claimed territory in nearby trees, their raucous laughter punctuating the gentler sounds of smaller birds preparing for nightfall.

"Listen to that," we murmured in unison as the bush symphony reached crescendo. Even single-night camps could deliver these moments of perfect presence.

Morning arrived with bird chorus rather than alarm, the kookaburras resuming their territorial announcements with enthusiasm that suggested they'd been conserving energy overnight. We broke camp with practiced efficiency, each of us moving through familiar choreography that required no discussion. The weekend warriors were just beginning to stir, their leisurely Saturday morning routines contrasting with our purposeful preparation for departure.

As we pulled away from Murchison Reserve, the Goulburn River glimpsed one final time through our windows, we carried no regret about the brevity of our stay. This had been exactly what we'd needed—a wild place between towns, a pause between movements, a moment of beauty between obligations. The road ahead promised three more such encounters before our paths diverged, each one precious precisely because of its temporary nature.

The reserve receded in our mirrors, but its essential gift remained: confirmation that even single nights in wild places fed our souls more than weeks in civilisation ever could. This understanding—that we were people who drove through towns to find nature rather than the reverse—had become fundamental to our identity. Tomorrow would bring another reserve, another river, another brief encounter with Australian landscape. But today had given us what we'd sought: water flowing steadily toward distant ocean, birds calling through ancient trees, and one more shared sunset before separation temporarily scattered us like seeds on different winds.Read more