Rivers of Time

The morning arrived without urgency, sunlight creeping across our golden home with the patience we'd learned to mirror since abandoning conventional existence. Long gone were the days of jarring alarms and rushed breakfasts, when we'd operated the gym with military precision—staff meetings at seven, doors open by five-thirty, every minute accounted for in the ledger of commercial necessity. That life, where years had raced past in exhausting blur, felt like someone else's story now. These days, we'd look back on camps from mere months ago—the Campaspe's ducklings, Masters Landing's elevated views—and they seemed to belong to different lifetimes entirely, as if our nomadic journey had stretched time itself into new dimensions.

"Strange how time works now," Sal observed over morning coffee, no rush in her movements despite the looming separation. "Remember when we thought a year was nothing? Now three months feels like an entire chapter of life."

Indeed, our relationship with time had undergone complete transformation. Where once we'd measured progress in membership numbers and profit margins, we now marked life's passage through rivers visited, wildlife encountered, mechanical challenges overcome. Each camp had become a complete experience rather than mere pause between obligations, every riverside morning carrying weight that office-bound years had never achieved.

The Murray River beckoned once more—that ancient waterway that had bookended our Victorian adventures, witnessed our evolution from tentative nomads to confident wanderers. This section promised different character from our recent downstream camps, another perspective on the river that had become our intermittent companion through eighteen months of mainland exploration.

We navigated slowly through river red gums, their pale trunks creating natural columns beside tracks that demanded careful attention. The dry conditions had rendered them passable—just—but we could read the landscape's warnings in rutted clay and erosion patterns. One decent rainfall would transform these routes into treacherous bog, trapping anything without high clearance and four-wheel drive. Our careful progress, picking driving lines with deliberation born from experience, reflected hard-won wisdom about respecting country that could shift from welcoming to hostile with single weather change.

Our first discovery felt like the Murray's personal gift—a magical clearing where the river curved in perfect arc, creating private beach accessible only through careful navigation. Ancient red gums leaned over the water at impossible angles, their reflection creating mirror worlds in the still morning surface. The spot was completely deserted, as if reserved specifically for our arrival. We pulled up with that particular satisfaction that comes from finding perfection through persistence rather than planning.

"This is it," Anth declared with certainty, already calculating angles. "This is absolutely it."

Yet technology intervened where nature had provided perfectly. Sal's work commitments—those video calls that funded our freedom—required reliable internet connection. Our Starlink dish, usually capable of finding satellites through surprising obstacles, couldn't penetrate the dense canopy that made this spot so magical. We performed the familiar dance of repositioning, angle adjustments, even Anth climbing atop the bus to gain extra height, but the trees that provided such magnificent shelter also blocked our digital lifeline.

"No good," Sal confirmed after multiple attempts, resignation colouring her voice. "Beautiful spot, but I need those calls tomorrow."

The beauty of river camping lay in abundance of alternatives. Five minutes downstream—barely enough distance to matter yet sufficient to change everything—we discovered another clearing that managed to balance our competing needs. Here the Murray spread wider, the trees pulled back from the bank creating open sky corridor perfect for satellite reception. We positioned ourselves right on the edge, so close that the river's voice became constant companion, its ancient flow providing soundtrack to our final night before separation.

"Clear shot to the satellites," Anth confirmed, checking the Starlink app with satisfaction. "And still beautiful river views."

The familiar ensemble of sulphur-crested cockatoos announced our arrival with characteristic enthusiasm, their harsh cries echoing across the water like avian commentary on our presence. Corellas added their own raucous contributions, the combined cacophony creating that particularly Australian symphony we'd grown to love despite its volume. Yet beyond the birds, profound solitude embraced us—no boats disturbing the Murray's surface, no other campers claiming nearby clearings, just us and the river conducting our private farewell.

This section of the Murray carried different character from our downstream experiences at Masters Landing and Perricoota Forest. Here the river ran deeper between more defined banks, its flow seeming more purposeful, less meandering. The absence of recreational boat traffic suggested we'd found a stretch less accessible to weekend warriors, more preserved in its natural state. The water itself appeared darker, more mysterious, carrying secrets from distant mountains toward eventual ocean meeting.

"We could stay here a week easily," Sal said wistfully as evening transformed the river into ribbon of gold. "This is the kind of spot you discover and never want to leave."

Indeed, everything about this location invited extended residence—level ground for comfortable camping, abundant firewood for evening warmth, river access for water activities, complete privacy for unhurried existence. Under different circumstances, we would have settled in for proper stay, letting the Murray's rhythm override calendar obligations. But tomorrow loomed with its unavoidable demands—Sal's video calls that couldn't be postponed, then the continued journey toward Albury-Wodonga where our paths would fork.

That evening carried particular poignancy as we prepared dinner together, each familiar action weighted with approaching absence. In just two days, Anth would disappear into clinical trial confinement for an entire month while Sal would navigate the bus solo to Queensland, stopping to visit girlfriends in Canberra along the way. This separation—the longest since we'd begun our nomadic journey—cast shadows over our riverside contentment, making every shared moment feel precious.

"A month apart," Sal said quietly as darkness settled over the river. "After being together constantly for eighteen months."

We'd grown so accustomed to shared decision-making, to navigating challenges as a team, that the prospect of solo adventures felt almost foreign. Yet we both understood the necessity—the trial would fund several months of future travel, while Sal's Queensland journey would maintain important friendships and family connections. These separations were the price of our freedom, temporary sacrifices that enabled continued nomadic existence.

Night brought the Murray's nocturnal symphony—water birds calling across darkness, the splash of jumping fish, the rustle of unseen creatures moving through riverside vegetation. We fell asleep to these ancient sounds, our last shared night on the Murray creating memory that would sustain us through coming separation.

Morning arrived with purpose rather than leisure. Sal's video calls couldn't be delayed, and our positioning proved perfect—strong internet connection despite our remote location, professional backdrop of bus interior while Australian bush provided glimpses through windows. We listened to her confident professional voice conducting business from this riverside sanctuary, marveling at how technology enabled such seamless blend of wilderness and work.

"All successful," Sal announced after her final call, closing the laptop with satisfaction. "Amazing that I can do this from literally anywhere with clear sky."

With obligations fulfilled, we packed with the particular efficiency of those who'd repeated these actions countless times. Each item secured in its designated place, every system checked for travel readiness. The Murray continued its patient flow as we prepared to leave, indifferent to our human dramas of meeting and parting, continuing its eternal journey as it had for millennia before we'd arrived and would for millennia after we'd gone.

As we navigated back through the river red gums, leaving our secret riverside sanctuary behind, we carried more than just memories of another beautiful camp. This final Murray morning before separation had provided perfect bookend to our Victorian river experiences—from our nervous first encounters with this mighty waterway to now, when we could find and appreciate its hidden gifts with confidence born from experience.

The road toward Albury-Wodonga stretched ahead, each kilometre bringing us closer to that moment when one would continue north while the other entered temporary confinement. But for now, we remained together in our golden home, the Murray's morning gift still fresh in our hearts, another river camp added to our ever-growing collection of places that had sheltered our unconventional love story.Read more