Cherry Pie and Airport Goodbyes
7.–8. dec., Australien ⋅ ☀️ 26 °C
The return journey reversed Anth's path through Namadgi, the familiar landmarks scrolling past in opposite order, wilderness surrendering to suburban sprawl. Three days of solo exploration complete, the national park releasing him back to civilisation and reunion.
Sal had settled at Liz's place following the coastal getaway, and her suggestion arrived via text as Anth navigated the city's edges. Stay the night here. She could drive him to the airport in the morning for his Melbourne flight. The logic was sound, the opportunity for one more evening together too valuable to decline.
But logistics intervened, as they so often did. His bag remained at Jan's, on the opposite side of Canberra from where Sal now waited. The last-minute change of plans translated into thirty minutes of driving north, a quick collection of belongings, then an about-face and thirty minutes heading south. An hour of navigation through suburban streets to achieve what should have been simple. Yet even this minor frustration dissolved when the bus finally pulled up at Liz's and Sal emerged to greet him.
The evening unfolded with the particular warmth of genuine hospitality. Jeff, Liz's husband, had been busy in the kitchen, and the aromas that greeted us carried promises of comfort. Homemade pizza emerged from the oven, its crust achieving that perfect balance of crisp and chewy that only home baking produces. But the true centrepiece arrived afterwards: cherry pie, the fruit picked fresh that very day by Sal and Liz from the garden. Each bite burst with the intensity of sun-warmed cherries transformed into something approaching perfection. These were the moments that made the logistics worthwhile, the driving and planning and constant adaptation rewarded by connection and generosity.
Night brought restlessness rather than rest. The unfamiliar bed contributed its share of discomfort, mattress and pillows arranged in configurations that didn't quite suit. But the physical unease merely amplified what our minds were already churning through: another separation approaching with morning's light. We lay in the darkness listening to each other's breathing, the quiet broken by occasional repositioning, by sighs that carried weight beyond their sound.
Dawn arrived regardless of our readiness for it. The drive to Canberra Airport passed in that particular silence of imminent parting, words feeling inadequate against the reality of what approached. We said our goodbyes at the departure zone, the familiar ritual of embraces and reassurances performed once more.
This time the uncertainty carried different flavour. If Anth entered the trial as scheduled, a week of confinement awaited. But if he turned out to be an alternate, the plan pivoted entirely: a flight straight to Queensland, arriving ahead of Sal's slower journey north with Grannie. Either outcome would find us reunited eventually, though the paths diverged dramatically depending on factors beyond our control.
The automatic doors swallowed Anth into the terminal's clinical brightness, and Sal drove away with the particular hollowness that farewells always leave behind. Somewhere between cherries picked in friendship's garden and clinical trials awaiting in Melbourne, our story continued its familiar pattern of convergence and separation, trusting always that the threads would weave back together when the time was right.Læs mere
Rain, Recovery, and the Road Back
6.–7. dec., Australien ⋅ ☁️ 27 °C
The final campground in Namadgi lay forty minutes deeper into the park, the longest drive of this three-camp exploration. Mount Clear marked the last stop before the ACT surrendered to New South Wales, a fitting endpoint for this solo circuit through Namadgi's wilderness offerings.
The sealed road gave way to dirt, and immediately the bus began trailing its familiar plume. Dust billowed up behind the wheels and lingered in the still air, a brown cloud marking progress through the landscape. Anth smiled as he activated the "Dusty Road Mode" on the smart bus system, that particular modification he'd spent hours perfecting. The system pressurised the interior, creating positive airflow that kept the fine particles outside where they belonged. Small victories of engineering made bush travel considerably more pleasant.
The turnoff appeared eventually, and Mount Clear campground revealed itself through the trees. Empty again. Three campgrounds, three arrivals in solitude. This pattern of finding places deserted felt like a gift, though Anth knew the weekend would change things.
This site operated as tent camping only, the large grassed area strictly off-limits to vehicles. The bus found its place on the dirt parking zone, positioned with careful consideration for later arrivals. Views remained unobstructed, access unrestricted. Even in temporary solitude, courtesy for those who'd follow felt important.
As predicted, the afternoon brought company. Vehicles rolled in steadily, just as they had at Orroral, tents sprouting across the grass like colourful fungi. The downside of exploring on weekends made itself apparent in the gradual filling of available space. Yet even busy, Mount Clear maintained breathing room between camps.
Sunset drew Anth out for a recovery jog, muscles still holding memory of yesterday's run among the kangaroo mobs. The tracks here ran wide and inviting, perfect surfaces that sparked anticipation for future adventures. His new mountain bike waited in Queensland, and these trails whispered of possibilities: return visits with wheels beneath him, exploring further than feet alone could carry.
Night brought something the mainland had been withholding since their return from Tasmania. Rain. Large drops began striking the bus roof with that particular percussion that transforms a vehicle into a drum. The sound came in waves, downpours followed by quiet followed by renewed intensity. Anth lay listening to the rhythm, appreciating how rarely this soundtrack had featured in recent weeks.
Morning arrived grey and damp, the rain having passed but leaving its signature across every surface. The weekend visitors departed in ones and twos through the day, engines starting and tyres crunching on wet gravel, until Mount Clear returned to the emptiness that had greeted Anth's arrival. The cycle complete.
A call to Torrin connected continents, father and son separated by the Tasman Sea. Torrin was making his way south along the TA track in New Zealand, that epic trail threading the length of both islands. Progress was slow but steady, adventure unfolding step by step on the other side of the water. These conversations anchored our scattered family, digital threads maintaining connection across whatever distances our various journeys created.
With the campground deserted and departure imminent, the moment felt right for testing. The shower system, upgraded during those productive days in Jan's driveway, had been waiting for proper trial. Anth set up the equipment in the sunshine, the new high-flow pump and generous rain shower head gleaming with promise. The water came hot and plentiful, cascading in a way their old system had never managed. An absolute treat, this simple luxury of proper showering in the bush, privacy guaranteed by empty surroundings.
Clean and satisfied, Anth packed up for the return to Canberra. One more reunion with Sal awaited before their paths would finally diverge until Christmas. The girlfriend getaway had concluded and now a brief convergence before the longer separation that clinical trials and Queensland journeys demanded.
Namadgi had offered three distinct camps across three memorable days: Honeysuckle Creek with its space-age history and Ghost Gums, Orroral Valley with its rusty windmill and kangaroo mobs, Mount Clear with its rain and recovery runs. Solo exploration had its own rhythm, different from but not lesser than shared adventure. Sometimes the road called one of us while the other found different nourishment in friendship and stillness.
The bus rolled back toward Canberra, dust rising once more behind wheels pointed toward reunion.Læs mere
Running with the Mobs
5.–6. dec., Australien ⋅ ⛅ 29 °C
The drive from Honeysuckle took barely twenty minutes, the road winding deeper into Namadgi's bushland before delivering Anth to his second destination. Orroral Campground lay empty on arrival, not a single vehicle occupying the cleared sites scattered among the trees. This solitude felt like a gift, the freedom to circle slowly and select the perfect position without negotiation or compromise.
With only one night planned here, solar orientation mattered less than usual. A fortunate thing, since Ghost Gums dominated this campground too, their pale trunks and spreading canopies creating dappled shade that would challenge any panel's efficiency. Anth chose his spot for aesthetics rather than practicality, positioning the bus where morning light would filter through white bark and eucalyptus leaves.
A walking track led toward the local waterhole, and curiosity pulled him along its winding path. The bush closed in with the particular intimacy of Australian scrubland, visibility limited to metres rather than horizons. Then, cutting through the birdsong and wind-rustled leaves, came a sound utterly out of place: metal striking metal, an intermittent clang that echoed through the landscape with industrial insistence.
Anth paused, orienting himself toward the source. The sound carried no rhythm, no pattern that suggested human activity, yet it persisted with mechanical regularity. The mystery deepened with each step until a bend in the track revealed its source. An old windmill stood among encroaching trees, rusted to the colour of dried blood, its mechanisms seized by decades of neglect. Yet the wind still found purchase on its broken blades, spinning the remnants just enough to produce that haunting percussion. Nature reclaiming machinery, using it as instrument in her own composition.
Through the afternoon, the campground's solitude gradually eroded. Vehicles arrived in ones and twos, their occupants claiming sites with the particular care of those who'd driven the distance. Yet even at its busiest, Orroral remained manageable, nothing like the overwhelming crowds at The Cotter the previous week. The benefits of driving further made themselves apparent in the space between camps, the quiet that persisted despite increased numbers.
Late afternoon brought restlessness. The kind that settles into muscles too long unused, demanding release. Anth consulted his digital map, tracing a walking track that promised to emerge onto open flats. Perfect terrain for a run. He set off as the sun began its descent, legs finding rhythm on the narrow trail.
Twenty minutes of steady effort, lungs working, sweat beginning to bead, and then the trees parted. The open flat stretched before him, golden in the late light, and grazing upon it were eastern grey kangaroos. A few at first, heads lifting from their feast to regard this sweating intruder. Then more, and more still, the numbers multiplying as Anth's eyes adjusted to the scale of the scene. Hundreds of them, mobs merging into mobs, stretching toward the distant tree line in an unbroken sea of grey fur and watching eyes.
He ran among them, maintaining enough distance to avoid startling them into flight. The kangaroos tracked his progress with alert curiosity, only bounding away when he veered too close. The urge to continue, to run until the mobs ended and some boundary revealed itself, pulled strongly. But the sun had begun its final descent, painting everything amber, and the prospect of navigating back through unfamiliar bush in darkness held no appeal.
The return journey proved trickier than anticipated. The turnoff back into the trees looked different from this direction, and Anth overshot it entirely, adding frustrating minutes to his backtrack before the correct path revealed itself. Eventually the bus emerged through the foliage, a welcome beacon of home amid the Ghost Gums.
He arrived back covered in sweat but thrumming with the particular exhilaration that only physical exertion in wild places provides. More vehicles had gathered during his absence, but none had encroached too close to his chosen spot. A quick rinse stripped away the salt and dust, simple food satisfied the hunger that running had awakened, and sleep came easily that night. The kind of deep, dreamless rest earned through honest exhaustion, surrounded by Ghost Gums and the memory of hundreds of kangaroos watching him run through their evening grazing grounds.Læs mere
Ghost Gums and Moon Landings
4.–5. dec., Australien ⋅ ☀️ 24 °C
The urban edges of Canberra fell away as Anth navigated deeper into Namadgi National Park, the road narrowing as civilisation loosened its grip. His first destination carried a name that belied its significance: Honeysuckle Campground, nestled in bushland that had once housed one of humanity's most remarkable listening posts.
The Honeysuckle Creek Tracking Station had stood here during the Apollo program, its massive dish antenna pointed toward the heavens during those breathless days of the space race. This was the station that had transmitted the first footage of Neil Armstrong stepping onto the lunar surface, beaming those grainy, world-changing images to a planet holding its collective breath. Now only concrete foundations remained, rectangular ghosts scattered among the regrowth, marking where buildings had hummed with the voices of distant astronauts.
Anth walked among the remnants with the particular reverence that abandoned places demand. Here, a slab where technicians had monitored signals travelling a quarter million miles. There, anchor points where the dish had rotated to track the moon's path across the southern sky. The bush had begun its slow reclamation, grasses pushing through cracks, saplings establishing themselves in what had once been pristine scientific facility. Yet the foundations persisted, concrete memories refusing to surrender entirely to time.
The campground itself sat among Ghost Gums, their pale trunks luminous in the afternoon light. These trees seemed appropriate guardians for such a place, their smooth white bark almost spectral against the darker bush. Anth set up camp with the efficiency of routine, positioning the bus to catch both the last warmth of the day and the first light of morning.
As dusk descended, the bush came alive with movement. Kangaroos emerged from the tree line, materialising like shadows given form. They grazed with unhurried purpose, their presence a reminder that this land had stories far older than space stations and moon landings. The Ghost Gums caught the fading light, glowing briefly gold before surrendering to darkness, and the kangaroos continued their evening ritual as if no human watched at all.
The night passed in profound quiet, the kind of silence that settles into bones and slows breathing to match the bush's patient rhythm. Two other campers shared the grounds, their vehicles forming a loose constellation of human presence in the wilderness.
Morning brought the particular clarity that comes from sleeping surrounded by history and eucalyptus. The other campers packed up and departed, leaving Anth in sole possession of this remarkable clearing. He lingered through the morning hours, reluctant to break the spell, but the remaining campgrounds called. Three sites currently open in this section of Namadgi, and exploration demanded he visit them all.
Just before noon, the bus rumbled back to life. Anth pulled away from Honeysuckle Creek with a backward glance at the Ghost Gums standing sentinel over their concrete charges, those foundations that had once connected Earth to the moon. Some places hold their history close, offering fragments to those who take time to look. This had been one of them.Læs mere
Eight Hours and Eighteen Dollars
30. nov.–4. dec., Australien ⋅ 🌬 16 °C
The bus station farewell carried familiar weight, though this separation would stretch longer than most. A few weeks at minimum, our paths diverging in ways that had become second nature to navigate. Even with Anth's plans shifting like sand, Sal's girlfriend getaway remained fixed: a coastal escape with Jan and Liz that had been circled on the calendar for months.
Change was often hard. We knew this intimately, remembering the versions of ourselves who had once resisted it with white-knuckled determination, clinging to the familiar rhythms of a life bound to one place. Now change had become our constant companion, and somewhere along the winding roads of this nomadic existence, we had learned not merely to accept it but to flourish within its stories. Each separation was simply another chapter, each reunion a homecoming that felt earned rather than expected.
Anth's journey back to Melbourne unfolded across eight hours of Australian landscape: four on the bus watching the outskirts of Canberra give way to rural New South Wales, another four on the train as the scenery shifted toward Victoria's familiar contours. The eighteen-dollar fare versus four hundred to fly had made the decision effortless, and the hours became their own kind of gift. He read with the particular absorption that long journeys allow, then turned to journaling our travels, words flowing easier when the world scrolled past windows in endless parallax.
The city hotel was cheap and functional, its thin walls and basic amenities exactly what a screening appointment required and nothing more. The medical checks passed without drama, the clinical routine now so familiar it barely registered. Later, when Sal asked how it went, the joke wrote itself: "How did the job interview go?" We laughed at how clinical trials had become our unconventional employment, bodies offered to science in exchange for the freedom to keep moving.
Meanwhile, the South Coast wrapped Sal in its particular magic. Tuross Head, with its sleepy coastal charm, provided the perfect backdrop for a belated fiftieth celebration. Three months had passed since her actual birthday, but Sal had long held the belief that birthdays were a season rather than a single day, deserving of multiple celebrations stretched across time. Jan and Liz understood this philosophy implicitly.
The days at the holiday house settled into gentle rhythm. Morning walks along beaches where the sand held overnight coolness beneath their feet. Coffee at local cafés where conversation meandered without destination. Card games that stretched into hours, punctuated by laughter that echoed off rental walls. This was friendship distilled to its essence: presence without agenda, connection without complication.
After four nights of coastal restoration, plans shifted again. Sal would spend the weekend at Liz's place, where eventually our paths would converge once more.
Anth, meanwhile, had reversed his marathon journey, another day consumed by train and bus as he traced his route back to Canberra. Jess collected him from the station, that familiar face in the arrivals crowd providing anchor in the constant motion. One more night followed, this time in the bus parked on a suburban street, the particular quiet of sleeping in your own space even when that space sits on public road.
Tomorrow promised Namadgi National Park, its wilderness calling with the voice that always stirred something restless in Anth's chest. A few days of exploration before returning once more to the orbit of friends and obligations. The separations continued, the reunions approached, and somewhere in between, we kept learning that distance measured in kilometres meant nothing compared to the connection that stretched effortlessly across it.Læs mere
A Brief Pause at The Cotter
28.–30. nov., Australien ⋅ ☀️ 22 °C
The blue light of the Wikicamps app illuminated Anth’s face as he weighed the logistics. With only forty-eight hours to spare, distance was the enemy; he needed a pause, not an expedition. Cotter Campground emerged as the logical compromise—close enough to Canberra to be practical, yet skirting the wild hem of Namadgi National Park.
When he mentioned the destination, Sal’s expression softened, the name sparking a sudden warmth.
'The Cotter! That's one of the places I used to camp when I was little.'
Her voice carried the echo of childhood summers, a nostalgic blessing on a journey he would be taking alone.
The drive was brief, a mere thirty minutes before the suburban sprawl dissolved into the scrub. Upon arrival, the campground held a heavy, welcome silence; only two other sites were occupied, leaving the rest of the grounds in a state of dormant anticipation. It wasn't the rugged isolation he usually sought. Here, order prevailed: designated bays, a brick amenities block, and the promise of hot showers . It was a far cry from the wild, dusty tracks of the interior, but it beat the claustrophobia of the suburbs.
As the week bled into the weekend, however, the solitude fractured. Tyres crunched over gravel in a steady rhythm as the city emptied itself into the reserve. Tents bloomed like nylon mushrooms and the air filled with the slam of car doors and the murmur of neighbours . By Saturday, the empty bays were a memory, the campground swelling to capacity.
Anth waited out the surge. On Sunday, as the weekend warriors packed down their eskies and collapsed their awnings, the quiet began to seep back in. He took the opportunity to wander down to the Cotter River, watching the clear water thread its way through the landscape, indifferent to the temporary invasion . The walk offered a moment of stillness, a brief communion with the land that the crowds had obscured.
Two nights away from suburbia had taken the edge off the restlessness, though the hunger for the road remained. With his wanderlust only slightly appeased, Anth turned the wheel back toward Canberra, trading the river’s flow for the rigid schedule of the V-Coach and train that would carry him south to Melbourne.Læs mere
Canberra's Borrowed Comfort
21.–28. nov., Australien ⋅ ☁️ 14 °C
The rhythm of our nomadic life had become a dance of divergence and reunion, paths splitting only to weave back together in ways we could never quite predict.
Sal pressed northward from Gundagai, the bus swallowing kilometres through undulating countryside where the hills rolled like golden waves frozen mid-swell. The town of Yass appeared and receded in her mirrors, a brief punctuation of civilisation before the road curved south toward Canberra's northern reaches. Somewhere ahead, Jan waited. Best friend. Safe harbour. The kind of person whose door opens before you've even knocked.
Meanwhile, Anth sat in a sterile waiting room, fluorescent lights humming their institutional song as he completed yet another screening appointment. A plane to catch, eight hours to kill, and the peculiar limbo of airport lounges stretched before him. His Virgin lounge access would transform what might have been tedious waiting into something almost comfortable, though comfort felt relative when your heart was already in Canberra.
Sal arrived at Jan's just before lunch, the bus settling into its temporary home with a grateful sigh of air brakes. Almost simultaneously, though separated by hundreds of kilometres, Anth was navigating Melbourne Airport's familiar corridors. The hours crawled past in that strange airport way, where time seems to move through treacle.
Jan and her daughter Jess welcomed Sal with the easy warmth of long friendship, conversations picking up mid-sentence as if no time had passed at all. Later, the three of them piled into a car and headed for Canberra Airport, headlights cutting through the darkness as midnight approached.
The flight was delayed. Of course it was. Anth finally emerged into the arrivals hall just before midnight, travel-worn but grinning. Our separation, that looming thirty-day stretch we'd steeled ourselves for, had collapsed into a single night. The universe, it seemed, had other plans.
Under Jan's roof, we rediscovered the strange luxury of traditional walls and ceilings, of rooms that didn't rock in the wind, of showers that didn't require strategic water conservation. Yet even as we settled into this borrowed domesticity, the phone rang with news that would test our hard-won flexibility.
The trial facility needed Anth back for a re-screen. A common enough occurrence in the clinical trial world, but geography had shifted beneath us. Flying back to Melbourne from Canberra, disrupting the fragile equilibrium we'd just established: the calculation didn't balance. Anth withdrew from the trial with surprisingly little anguish. We had become fluid creatures, adapting to circumstance like water finding its level. What might once have felt like failure now registered simply as redirection.
With unexpected time on our hands and the rare luxury of Bunnings access, Anth finally tackled a project that had been nagging at him for months. Our portable shower, that essential piece of nomadic infrastructure, had been languishing since its pump failed back in Tasmania. The parts had accumulated slowly during our travels, gathered like puzzle pieces waiting for the right moment to assemble.
Now, in Jan's driveway, that moment arrived. Anth worked with quiet concentration, replacing the failed pump with a high-quality, high-flow unit built to last years rather than months. The upgrade didn't stop there. A generous rain shower head replaced the original's miserly trickle. But the real innovation was the recirculating system, transforming our shower from simple convenience to genuine luxury. We tested it with the giddy satisfaction of engineers watching their creation come to life, already anticipating the moment we'd be back on the road with hot water cascading properly for the first time in months.
Evenings found us gathered around Jan's television, drawn into *Deadloch*, a dark comedy set in Tasmania that she'd discovered and insisted we watch. The show's Tasmanian setting stirred something unexpected in our chests. We'd been gone less than a year, yet watching those familiar landscapes flickering across the screen triggered a nostalgia so acute it surprised us. Tasmania had become our spiritual home, its wild coastlines and ancient forests imprinted somewhere deep. Even fictional representations pulled at threads we hadn't realised were so tightly woven.
As our Canberra days settled into comfortable rhythm, Anth's restlessness began to surface. The wanderlust that had driven us onto the road in the first place doesn't simply switch off because you're parked somewhere pleasant. His feet grew itchy, that familiar urge to move prickling beneath his skin.
He first secured a spot in the final cohort of the trial he'd just withdrawn from, a date set for the new year with screening in a few days. But between now and then stretched empty days, and empty days demanded filling. The decision crystallised quickly: he would take the bus a short distance out of Canberra, find a quiet camp, and spend a few days alone with the horizon. Sal would stay with Jan, their friendship deserving more time than our constant movement usually allowed.
It was a small separation, measured in days rather than weeks. But it spoke to something essential about how we'd learned to live: together when together served us, apart when apart made sense, always trusting that the threads connecting us could stretch without breaking.
The road called, and Anth answered. Sal stayed, wrapped in the warmth of old friendship and borrowed walls. And somewhere between them, our story continued to write itself in the language of flexibility and trust, of showers finally fixed and trials withdrawn from, of television shows that made us homesick for places we'd never truly left.Læs mere
Blood Tests and Broken Plans
20.–21. nov., Australien ⋅ ☁️ 22 °C
The solo drive north toward Gundagai required every ounce of concentration Sal could muster. The bus responded to her increasingly confident touch—she'd come so far from those first nervous kilometres in Tasmania—but Anth's absence felt like missing ballast, throwing off the vehicle's emotional balance even as it tracked true on the highway. Thirty minutes outside Albury, practical necessity intervened. A truck stop provided safe haven for her scheduled group meeting, the online fitness coaching that funded their freedom requiring professional presence despite personal upheaval.
"Good morning, everyone!" Sal projected enthusiasm into her laptop camera, the bus's interior providing familiar backdrop while her clients remained unaware of the emotional storm barely contained beneath professional veneer.
The meeting completed, she continued north through landscapes that blurred past windows suddenly too quiet. No commentary from Anth about geological formations, no shared excitement over wildlife sightings, no comfortable silence that comes from years of partnership. Just the diesel engine's steady rhythm and her own thoughts for company.
The day filled itself with obligations that provided blessed distraction. University lectures streamed through the laptop, assignment deadlines demanding attention, work calls requiring focus. Yet between each task, during every pause, Anth's absence asserted itself with almost physical presence. The passenger seat sat empty, the dinette table showed too much space, even the bed seemed to have expanded in his absence—all that extra room somehow making her feel smaller rather than freer.
"Life is good," Sal told herself as afternoon wore toward evening, trying to shift focus toward upcoming positives. Soon she'd see Jan and Liz, her two best friends who'd been supporting this adventure from afar. Then her mother would join for a road trip toward Queensland—different company, different dynamics, new adventures to overlay this aching absence.
Meanwhile, in Melbourne's clinical facility, Anth had settled into the familiar rhythm of trial participation. The day had passed in typical fashion—blood draws at prescribed intervals, meals at designated times, the strange camaraderie that develops among people choosing temporary confinement for financial gain. As evening descended, he'd organised his favourite social activity, gathering fellow participants for Blood on the Clocktower—the social deduction game that had become his signature contribution to trial culture.
"I was the Empath," someone declared as the game reached its crescendo near midnight. "And I still don't know who the demon is!"
The game provided perfect distraction from missing Sal, from wondering how her solo drive had progressed, from counting the days until reunion. Players assumed roles of villagers and demons, creating elaborate narratives of deception and deduction that could consume hours without notice. Anth had introduced this game to dozens of trials, watching friendships form across the storytelling table, building community within confinement.
Then, at almost midnight, clinical reality shattered the game's fantasy. A doctor appeared at Anth's shoulder with expression that every trial participant learned to fear—sympathetic but firm, apologetic but absolute.
"I'm sorry, but you've been excluded from the trial," he delivered the verdict with practiced gentleness. "Your blood work shows levels outside our acceptable parameters."
The blow landed with particular force given the timing—twelve hours into what should have been a month-long commitment, their financial planning suddenly capsized, Sal already hundreds of kilometres away with the bus. Exclusion was always a risk in clinical trials, the fine print everyone acknowledged but nobody expected to experience. Bodies were unpredictable, biochemistry could betray at any moment, and the strict protocols that ensured scientific validity showed no mercy for personal circumstances.
"Right," Anth said after absorbing the shock, his mind already shifting into problem-solving mode. "What about the next trial? I'm already here, might as well screen for the upcoming one."
The facility, accustomed to such situations, accommodated his request for immediate rescreening. By morning, he'd completed the entrance requirements for another trial, though it wouldn't commence for two weeks. This gap presented logistical puzzle that required creative solution—Sal was already bound for Canberra with established plans, the bus was their only accommodation, and flying to meet her made more sense than any alternative.
The phone call to Sal carried mixed emotions across the digital distance. Disappointment at the lost income battled with unexpected joy at premature reunion, frustration with circumstances competed with relief that separation would be abbreviated. We crafted new plans with the adaptability that had become our hallmark—Sal would continue to Canberra as planned, maintaining her friend visits. Anth would fly there that night, and head out to camp somewhere close by.
Life on the ever-changing road had prepared us for exactly this—sudden reversals, failed plans transforming into unexpected opportunities, the need to remain fluid when fixed expectations proved brittle. What had seemed like month-long separation would now become brief interlude, though the financial impact would ripple through coming months. Yet even this concern felt manageable compared to the prospect of abbreviated absence.
As Anth booked his flight to Canberra, as Sal continued her solo journey north with lighter heart, we both reflected on how this day had encapsulated our nomadic existence. Plans made and unmade, tears shed and dried, separation begun and already ending—all of it part of the larger adventure we'd chosen. The platform at Wodonga wherewe had parted that morning already felt like ancient history, though barely twelve hours had passed.
Tomorrow would bring new configuration, but tonight, we each faced our own version of solitude. Sal in the bus that echoed with absence, Anth in the clinical facility preparing for unexpected departure. The month that had loomed so large had shrunk to mere days, proving once again that their journey's only constant was change itself, that adaptation mattered more than anticipation, that even failed trials could yield unexpected gifts.Læs mere
A Month Begins at the Station
19.–20. nov., Australien ⋅ ☀️ 23 °C
Back on the blacktop, we headed due east in a straight line, the landscape unfolding with the particular flatness of Victoria's northern reaches. Our destination—Albury-Wodonga—felt fitting for what lay ahead, a twin city straddling two states where our own paths would temporarily diverge. The border town's dual identity seemed to mirror our approaching separation, two entities functioning as one yet maintaining distinct existence.
Wodonga welcomed us first, Victoria's final offering before the Murray marked state boundaries. We paused briefly to orient ourselves, the town's practical layout revealing its border-town functionality—services clustered for travellers passing between states, infrastructure designed for transit rather than lingering. Then we crossed into New South Wales, leaving Victoria behind as we sought the train station that would serve as tomorrow's departure point.
The station car park initially seemed promising—convenient, well-lit, close to the platform where morning's farewell would unfold. But signs sprouted everywhere like bureaucratic weeds, their warnings of fines and restrictions making our intentions clear: overnight parking was not welcome here. We circled twice, hoping to find some overlooked corner where our presence might pass unnoticed, but the message remained unambiguous.
"Not worth the risk," Anth concluded, already reaching for his phone to consult WikiCamps. "Let's find somewhere proper and come back in the morning."
We left the bus in the station car park temporarily while we ventured into town for dinner, the practical need for food providing excuse to regroup and research alternatives. Over meals eaten with the particular awareness of those facing separation, we scrolled through camping options, seeking something close enough for our early start yet legitimate enough to avoid midnight encounters with parking enforcement.
The solution revealed itself through the generosity of the local RSL, who offered their car park to self-contained vehicles for single-night stays. This arrangement—common enough across Australia but always appreciated—provided exactly what we needed: legitimate sanctuary less than five minutes from the station, close enough for our dawn departure yet removed from the station's prohibitive signage.
We relocated our golden home to the RSL car park as evening settled over Albury-Wodonga, the familiar routine of positioning and levelling carrying different weight knowing this would be our last shared night for a month. The car park's utilitarian surroundings—concrete and line markings, other vehicles coming and going—couldn't diminish the significance of these final hours together.
The alarm pierced through darkness at an hour that felt cruel even by our nomadic standards, though neither of us had truly slept. We'd spent the night in restless tandem—turning, sighing, occasionally reaching across the space between us as if to store the sensation of proximity before its imminent absence. Our bodies had grown so accustomed to shared sleep that even anticipation of separation disrupted our usual rhythms, creating a wakeful vigil where minutes stretched like elastic toward the dawn we simultaneously craved and dreaded.
We'd prepared the bus for travel the previous evening with mechanical precision that masked emotional turbulence. Every system checked twice, every item secured with excessive care—Sal would be navigating solo for the first time on a journey of this magnitude, and our mutual anxiety manifested in obsessive preparation. The golden home that had sheltered our partnership for eighteen months would continue north with only half its usual crew, while the other half disappeared into Melbourne's medical machinery for an entire month.
"Everything's ready," we'd assured each other repeatedly, though we both knew the preparations that mattered couldn't be packed or secured.
The short drive from the RSL to Albury station unfolded in practiced precision despite the emotional weight pressing against our chests. We'd become experts at early morning departures, our movements choreographed through countless pre-dawn starts, but this morning carried different gravity. Each familiar action—securing the cab, checking mirrors, navigating empty streets—felt heightened, as if our bodies were memorising the last moments of togetherness before enforced separation.
The station car park stood mostly empty in the pre-dawn gloom, sodium lights casting everything in that particular amber that makes reality feel suspended. We parked with careful consideration of Sal's return journey—easy exit angles, clear sight lines, nothing to complicate her solo departure after delivering Anth to his train. These small considerations had become our language of care, practical gestures carrying emotional weight words couldn't quite reach.
"You'll be fine," Anth assured as we walked toward the platform, though his hand gripping Sal's suggested he was reassuring himself as much as her. "The bus practically drives itself now, and you're more than ready."
The V-Line train arrived with mechanical inevitability, its headlight cutting through morning mist like fate approaching. Other passengers moved with routine purpose—commuters beginning another ordinary day, travellers continuing ordinary journeys. For us, this train represented fracture in the continuous narrative we'd been writing together, a pause in the shared story that had defined our existence since leaving Brisbane all those months ago.
Standing on the platform, Sal felt the emotional dam she'd carefully maintained begin to crack. Eighteen months of constant companionship, of every decision made together, every challenge faced as a unit, every sunset shared from our golden home—all of it compressed into this moment of necessary parting. The clinical trial that would confine Anth for a month represented essential funding for future adventures, but logic provided cold comfort against the immediate reality of separation.
"It's only a month," Anth whispered, pulling Sal close as the train's doors opened with pneumatic finality. "Christmas Eve, we'll be together again."
But as he stepped aboard, as the doors sealed between them, as the train began its inexorable departure, the tears Sal had been fighting escaped in silent streams down her cheeks. She stood on the empty platform long after the train's lights had vanished into the grey morning, allowing herself this moment of pure feeling before returning to the bus that suddenly seemed enormous in its emptiness.Læs mere
When Perfect Comes Before Parting
18.–19. nov., Australien ⋅ ⛅ 26 °C
Instead of driving halfway to Wodonga to spread the journey into manageable segments, Anth had discovered something special through his late-night digital exploration. WikiCamps had provided the initial clue, but satellite imagery had revealed what promised to be special—a hidden possibility that justified deviation from the direct route on our final full day together. The countdown that had occupied our thoughts for days now stood at its conclusion, lending weight to every decision about how to spend these precious remaining hours.
"Trust me on this one," Anth said with quiet certainty as we departed our previous riverside sanctuary. "The satellite images show something remarkable—I think the Murray has one more gift for us."
The drive proved deliberately slow—twenty minutes of careful navigation through bush tracks that tested our patience and our vehicle's clearance. These tracks ran rougher than any we'd navigated in recent days, the surface deteriorating with each kilometre deeper into unmarked territory. Red dust rose behind us like farewell smoke, coating our golden home in fine powder that would later require attention but currently seemed unimportant. Clay ruts grabbed at our tyres with possessive insistence, fallen branches demanded careful negotiation, and several times we questioned the wisdom of continuing. Yet something pulled us forward—perhaps Anth's conviction gleaned from those satellite images, perhaps the universe's promise that final gifts often required effort to receive.
The track twisted through river red gums and black box trees, their canopy creating tunnels of filtered light that grew denser as we progressed. Each turn brought new obstacles—washouts from recent rains, sandy sections that threatened to bog us, overhanging branches that scraped along our roof with fingernail-on-chalkboard persistence. Our speed dropped to walking pace, sometimes slower, as we picked lines through the deteriorating surface with increasing care.
"Are you sure about this?" Sal asked as we navigated a particularly challenging section, though her voice carried curiosity rather than doubt.
When we finally cleared the last stand of trees, revelation stopped our breath simultaneously. Before us stretched something we hadn't known the Murray possessed in all our weeks of following its course—an actual beach of river sand, wide and firm enough to drive along, completely deserted as if reserved specifically for our farewell. The river had crafted this secret paradise through patient centuries, depositing sand in perfect crescents while maintaining deep swimming holes where the current had scoured the opposite bank. This wasn't merely another riverside camp; this was the Murray showing us something previously hidden, saved perhaps for precisely this moment when we most needed perfection.
"Oh my goodness," we breathed in unison, our voices carrying the reverence such discoveries deserved.
We drove slowly along the beach itself, tyres finding firm purchase on sand packed solid by recent water levels. The sensation of driving directly beside the Murray—not above it on embankments, not glimpsing it through trees, but actually travelling along its very edge with windows open to catch spray from small waves—felt like the river had granted us special privilege for our final day. The beach stretched perhaps two hundred metres, curving gently with the river's flow, completely unmarked by other tyre tracks or footprints. We had discovered the Murray's secret sanctuary, and it was ours alone.
This was, without question or competition, our favourite Murray camp from all our weeks following its ancient course. Every previous spot—Masters Landing with its elevated views, Perricoota Forest with its black swans at dusk, that clearing where the Azure Kingfisher had hunted—all paled before this unexpected beach that felt designed specifically for our farewell. The universe, it seemed, had conspired with geography to provide the perfect stage for our final act together.
We positioned ourselves with unusual deliberation, understanding this setup would be our last as a complete unit for an entire month. Every angle was considered, every system checked with particular attention. The panoramic windows that had sold us on this bus now framed perfection—river flowing past one side, sandy beach stretching along the other, and ahead, the curve where water met sand at an angle that would transform sunset into theatre. Each small decision carried weight: the precise positioning of chairs on sand, the angle of solar panels for morning sun we'd experience separately, the careful arrangement of everything that would soon be Sal's sole responsibility.
That evening, we pulled our chairs to the sand and sat in profound silence as the sun began its descent toward the river. Words felt both inadequate and unnecessary—what could language add to this moment that silence didn't already contain? The Murray transformed through its sunset palette—silver to gold to copper to deep purple—while we simply witnessed, our hands occasionally finding each other across the space between chairs. The silence between us wasn't empty but full, carrying eighteen months of shared adventures, mechanical challenges overcome together, countless rivers witnessed side by side, the deep understanding that comes from choosing unconventional life with another soul brave enough to abandon certainty for possibility.
Night passed with the particular quality of last times—we stayed outside longer than comfort suggested, reluctant to surrender any moment to sleep. The Murray's voice seemed different here at beach level, more intimate, each small wave against sand creating rhythms we tried to memorise. Stars emerged in numbers that still surprised us after all these months away from urban light pollution, the Milky Way stretching above like celestial river paralleling the earthly one at our feet. We talked in quiet voices about practicalities—trial procedures for Anth, driving routes for Sal, reunion plans in a month—but beneath logistics ran deeper currents of emotion neither quite voiced.
Morning arrived with cruel beauty, sunshine painting our beach golden while birds conducted dawn chorus from surrounding trees. Sal had several video calls scheduled for work—those professional commitments that funded our freedom requiring attention regardless of personal preference. Yet even obligation took on different quality in this setting. Between calls, we spread a blanket on the beach under the shade of overhanging trees, creating an outdoor office that no corporate building could match.
Lunch became ceremony rather than mere meal. We prepared food together with unusual attention, each mundane action—spreading butter on bread, slicing tomatoes, pouring water—performed with consciousness that tomorrow such simple partnerships would be impossible. We ate slowly on our beach blanket, tasting everything twice, watching the Murray flow past with its ancient patience while time seemed to pause in deference to our need for stillness.
"Time's stopped," Sal observed, and indeed it had—the afternoon stretching and contracting simultaneously, each moment lasting forever while hours vanished with frightening speed.
We found ourselves moving with deliberate slowness, as if reduced pace might convince the universe to extend this gift. Every small action became meditation: packing items with excessive care, securing systems with redundant checking, taking one more walk along our private beach, sitting for just another moment watching the river flow. The Murray continued its patient journey past our beach, indifferent to human dramas of meeting and parting yet somehow complicit in providing this perfect stage for our temporary farewell.
We stretched the day as long as responsibility allowed, finding every possible excuse for delay. One more coffee prepared and consumed while watching water birds fish in the shallows. Another walk along the beach to "check something" that didn't need checking. A final photograph of the spot from multiple angles, though we knew no image could capture what this place had given us. But eventually, inevitably, we could postpone no longer. The drive to Wodonga required daylight navigation, positioning for tomorrow's separation demanded practical action despite emotional resistance.
Packing our chairs for the last time as a complete unit, securing our belongings with extra care knowing Sal would soon manage everything alone, starting the engine that would carry us toward separation—each action felt weighted with significance. The beach that had hosted our perfect final day together would continue existing after our departure, waves lapping against sand whether witnessed or not, but something of ourselves would remain here—suspended in this place where time had briefly stopped, where the Murray had revealed its final secret, where silence had said everything words couldn't carry.
As we navigated carefully back through the rough tracks, our golden home now dressed in dust from the journey, neither of us looked back. We didn't need to. This beach beside the Murray, this gift of sand and solitude on our last day together, had already carved itself into memory with the permanence of river carving stone. Tomorrow would bring trains and trials, solo driving and separate adventures, a month of apartness that felt simultaneously brief and eternal. But today—this perfect, painful, precious today—had belonged entirely to us and to the Murray's generous finale.Læs mere
Rivers of Time
17.–18. nov., Australien ⋅ ☁️ 18 °C
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.Læs mere
Towns and Rivers Meet
16.–17. nov., Australien ⋅ 🌬 21 °C
With only a few remaining nights before separation scattered us like seeds on different winds—the countdown had acquired its own momentum, each shared sunset carrying weight of impending absence. Anth had searched for our next sanctuary the previous evening, his phone screen illuminating the darkened bus as he scrolled through WikiCamps possibilities. Forty minutes north lay another free camp promising another river's company—Broken Creek threading through Numurkah's heart, offering that increasingly rare combination of natural setting within urban proximity.
The drive from Murchison carried us through more of Victoria's agricultural tapestry, irrigation channels creating geometric patterns across paddocks that spoke of humanity's negotiation with landscape. Each kilometre north brought subtle shifts in terrain—the Goulburn River Valley giving way to flatter country where water had been coaxed and channeled rather than simply followed. Our countdown continued its relentless progression, this third night of four carrying particular poignancy as we approached the inevitable fork where our paths would diverge.
Numurkah announced itself with the typical grammar of regional towns—grain silos standing sentinel, wide streets designed for agricultural machinery, the essential services clustered along a main thoroughfare that had probably looked similar for decades. Yet unlike our usual transit through such settlements—quick passages toward wild places beyond—this time the town itself formed part of our destination. Broken Creek's course through Numurkah's centre created unusual marriage of urban and natural, civilisation and wilderness coexisting in uneasy partnership.
The camping area revealed itself along the creek's banks, neither fully town nor properly bush but occupying that liminal space between worlds. We weren't alone in seeking this hybrid sanctuary—several vans and caravans had already claimed positions along the water's edge, their occupants clearly understanding the value of free riverside camping even when it came with proximity to suburban backyards and occasional passing traffic.
"At least they're properly spaced," Sal observed as we surveyed our options, noting how each camping unit had maintained respectful distance from neighbours. This wasn't the aggressive territoriality of weekend warriors at popular spots but the quiet understanding of fellow travellers seeking solitude within community.
We positioned our golden home with careful consideration of our panoramic windows—those full views on both sides that had initially seduced us into choosing this particular bus for our nomadic life. One side faced the town, where houses backed onto the reserve and occasional dog walkers provided human theatre. The other blessed us with Broken Creek's gentle flow, its banks lined with river red gums whose evening chorus of birds reminded us why we endured towns to find these natural margins.
"Nature wins," Anth declared after rotating our position slightly to favour the creek view while minimising the urban intrusion. Our windows might frame both worlds, but our hearts had long ago declared their allegiance.
The afternoon light worked its familiar magic on the water, transforming Broken Creek into ribbon of gold threading through Numurkah's practical heart. Despite the proximity of houses and the occasional car crossing the nearby bridge, something about running water maintained its ability to soothe souls calibrated for wilderness. We set up our minimal overnight camp—chairs positioned for sunset viewing, essential items arranged for easy morning departure, no elaborate deployment for what would be another brief encounter with place.
Other campers maintained the informal protocols of free camping—quiet generators shut down at reasonable hours, voices kept low, the mutual understanding that everyone sought peace even in this semi-urban setting. A couple in a well-travelled van waved from their spot upstream, that universal acknowledgment between nomads that required no words. A family with young children occupied the furthest position, their evening routine of dinner and bedtime playing out in miniature domestic theatre that reminded us of our own children's younger years.
Dinner emerged from simplified preparation—tomorrow meant packing everything again, so elaborate camp cooking seemed wasteful of both time and washing water. Yet even this basic meal, consumed while watching Broken Creek reflect the sunset's colours, carried its own perfection.
"It's peaceful here," Sal noted as darkness began claiming the creek, town lights creating amber glow on one horizon while stars emerged above the water. "Not spectacular, but peaceful."
Indeed, Numurkah's offering wasn't dramatic beauty or pristine wilderness but something more subtle—the reminder that water's magic persisted even when surrounded by suburbia, that rivers maintained their ancient conversations whether witnessed from remote camps or town reserves. Broken Creek might lack the Goulburn's impressive flow or the Murray's historic significance, but it provided exactly what we needed for this penultimate night: moving water to mark time's passage, natural sounds to overlay urban noise, and space to be together while preparing for apartness.
The night passed with the particular quality of transient camps—sleep coming easily from day's travel, no wind disturbing our rest, the creek's voice providing gentle soundtrack to dreams. Morning would bring efficient departure routine, our single night here leaving barely a trace of our passage. Tomorrow we'd reach the Murray River once more—that mighty waterway that had bookended our Victorian adventures, where we'd find our final camp before the Sunday morning separation that loomed like weather front on horizon.
As we settled for sleep, Broken Creek continued its patient flow through Numurkah's heart, indifferent to our human dramas of meeting and parting. We'd added another river to our growing collection, another overnight sanctuary to our mental map of Australian camps. Not every stop needed to be spectacular; sometimes the quiet places between destinations provided their own gifts—time together made precious by its limits, ordinary moments transformed into memory by their scarcity, even hybrid camps where town met nature offering exactly what travelling hearts required.Læs mere
To Find the Wild
15.–16. nov., Australien ⋅ ⛅ 21 °C
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.Læs mere
Rails, Rivers, and Rescued Racers
13.–15. nov., Australien ⋅ ⛅ 16 °C
The twenty-minute journey from Major Creek's tranquil banks to Seymour's practical urbanity carried us through landscapes that shifted from riparian serenity to suburban necessity. Our golden home, still carrying traces of riverside dust, navigated toward the train station with the particular tension that always accompanied leaving our entire world vulnerable in public spaces. The search for suitable parking became meditation on trust—each potential spot evaluated not just for size and level but for visibility, lighting, and that indefinable sense of security that whispered either welcome or warning.
The station car park finally offered acceptable sanctuary, positioned beneath the watchful gaze of security cameras and bathed in the harsh sodium glow of overnight lighting. We circled twice before committing, each pass revealing different angles of exposure and protection. The stress of abandoning our wheeled universe—every possession, every comfort, every carefully curated system that enabled our nomadic existence—pressed against our ribs as we locked the door with excessive deliberation.
"She'll be fine," we reassured ourselves, though our backward glances betrayed the anxiety that never quite dissipated when bus and bodies separated. The security cameras blinked their red promises of surveillance, yet trust in technology couldn't quite override the primal need to protect one's den.
The V-Line carried us deeper into Melbourne's gravitational pull, rural vistas surrendering to increasing density with each station passed. Southern Cross Station delivered us into Melbourne's orchestrated chaos, where we navigated the tram system with hard-won confidence—those lessons learned during previous medical obligations now serving social purposes. The journey to Brunswick West unfolded through suburbs that displayed Melbourne's characteristic diversity, each neighbourhood asserting its own personality through architecture, demographics, and the particular quality of street life that distinguished one postcode from another.
The local post office held our protein powder supplies—those practical supplements that maintained physical health during our unconventional lifestyle. The mundane transaction of collecting parcels felt somehow significant in this urban context, a reminder that even nomadic existence required occasional interface with conventional postal systems, our fluid life occasionally solidifying at collection points scattered across the continent.
Jack and Nic's home emerged like an oasis of familiarity within Melbourne's urban sprawl. Their greeting carried the particular warmth reserved for friends whose appearances were rare enough to be properly celebrated. Yet before human connections could properly unfold, we were intercepted by their latest charitable project—Jett, a black greyhound whose sleek form and gentle demeanour immediately commanded attention.
"Meet the newest member of the household," Jack announced as Jett performed the elaborate full-body wiggle that greyhounds somehow manage despite their minimal body fat. "Foster number... actually, I've lost count."
Indeed, our brief visits to their Melbourne sanctuary had introduced us to a parade of rescued racers—each dog carrying its own story of transition from track to couch, from commodity to companion. This consistent thread of canine rehabilitation wove through our sporadic reunions, their home serving as waystation for dogs discovering that life existed beyond the racing industry's narrow definitions.
Jett's particular story unfolded over dinner—another casualty of the racing industry's cruel mathematics, deemed surplus at an age when most dogs were just discovering their personalities. His gratitude manifested in aggressive leaning, his sharp bones pressing against our legs with insistence that seemed to say "I'm here, I'm safe, please confirm both through constant contact." We obliged willingly, understanding that need for physical reassurance, recognising our own hunger for connection reflected in his dark eyes.
Conversation flowed with the particular richness that comes from lives lived separately but with mutual respect for different choices. They shared tales of Melbourne's evolution during our absence, we countered with stories of riverside camps and mountain passes. Neither lifestyle was presented as superior, just different instruments in life's orchestra, each playing necessary notes in the larger composition.
Our two-day stay carved itself into distinct purposes. Sal's final university workshops for the year demanded early morning departures and late afternoon returns, her academic obligations pulling her into the city's educational heart. These workshops represented crucial components of her degree—the face-to-face elements that online learning couldn't replicate, where theory met practice under expert supervision.
Meanwhile, Anth found unexpected adventure in Jack and Nic's invitation to join their cycling exploration of Melbourne's periphery. The loan of their e-bike proved strategic genius—the electric assistance preventing the delayed onset muscle soreness that might compromise his upcoming trial participation. The clinical facility's protocols were unforgiving about physical limitations, and arriving with DOMS-compromised mobility would risk exclusion from the study.
The ride traced the Yarra River's course through landscapes that shifted from industrial to pastoral, the water providing consistent thread through Melbourne's varied tapestry. The e-bike's assistance transformed what might have been gruelling into glorious, allowing Anth to match Jack and Nic's pace without the deep muscle fatigue that traditional cycling would have induced. They paused at cafés that seemed to exist specifically for the lycra-clad tribes of Melbourne's cycling culture, where conversations about gear ratios and Strava segments provided soundtrack to coffee consumption.
"This is brilliant," Anth declared, the e-bike's motor humming assistance up a particularly ambitious incline. "All the joy, none of the joint pain."
The technology felt like cheating until we reframed it as adaptation—using available tools to maintain participation despite physical limitations. This philosophy had guided our entire nomadic journey: embrace assistance that enabled rather than replaced experience, accept help that expanded rather than diminished capability.
Sal's workshop days proved intensely rewarding, the concentrated learning environment compressing weeks of online study into hours of practical application. Her fellow students, known previously only as discussion board avatars, manifested as real humans with their own struggles and triumphs. The facilitators brought decades of experience that no textbook could capture, their anecdotes and insights adding dimensionality to academic theory.
Our evenings at Jack and Nic's became precious interludes of normalcy—or at least their version of it, with Jett demanding constant attention while we attempted to maintain conversation. The greyhound had clearly decided we belonged to him for the duration of our stay, his vigilant presence ensuring we never moved without escort, never sat without his angular body pressed against our legs.
The farewell morning arrived with its usual bittersweet flavour. Jack and Nic had commitments, so our goodbye carried the efficiency of those accustomed to partings. Jett, however, seemed to understand the permanent nature of this separation, his tail drooping as we gathered our minimal belongings.
"Until next time," we said, the phrase carrying certainty despite uncertainty about when that might be. Our nomadic existence meant friendships survived on faith—believing that paths would cross again, that connection transcended frequency of contact.
The logistics of our reunion required precise choreography. Anth caught a metro train thirty minutes north, positioning himself at a station where the V-Line from Melbourne would pause on its regional route. The timing had to be perfect—Sal's city train arriving just minutes before the northern service departed, their connection point providing brief window for reunion before the journey back to Seymour.
When we spotted each other on the platform, the relief felt disproportionate to our mere two-day separation. Perhaps it was the urban environment that amplified our need for partnership, or perhaps the approaching trial that would separate us for nearly a month made every moment together more precious. The train ride back to Seymour passed in detailed exchange of separate adventures—workshop insights balanced against cycling discoveries, academic achievements weighed against physical accomplishments.
Our bus waited exactly as we'd left it, faithful and patient in the station car park. No vandalism marred its golden surface, no break-in disturbed our carefully organised interior. The security cameras had apparently done their job, or perhaps we'd simply been lucky once again. Either way, the relief of returning to our mobile sanctuary flooded through us as we climbed aboard, every surface familiar, every system ready to resume our journey.
Starting the engine and pulling away from Seymour station felt like resuming a paused song. The brief urban interlude—with its trains and trams, its fostered greyhounds and e-bike adventures, its workshops and reunions—had provided necessary punctuation in our nomadic narrative. But now the road called again, the river systems beckoned, and our wheels turned toward whatever adventure awaited beyond the suburban surrender to rural promise.Læs mere
Simple Sanctuaries, Perfect Purpose
11.–13. nov., Australien ⋅ ⛅ 14 °C
The compass of our nomadic existence rarely points true north—it swings instead between opportunity and obligation, between wanderlust and workshop schedules. Our plan, fluid as all plans become when home has wheels and horizon serves as calendar, was to drift slowly northward like smoke from a dying campfire. Yet even smoke must acknowledge the wind's direction, and Sal's final two-day Melbourne workshop demanded we remain tethered to civilisation's steel arteries—close enough to a train line for her necessary return to urban purpose.
The Murray's recent embrace had awakened something primal within us, that ancient human need to camp beside water's edge. Those days listening to Australia's arterial river had spoiled us for dry camps, leaving us thirsting not just for water's practical necessity but for its constant conversation—the particular peace that comes from liquid movement through landscape. Seymour appeared on our maps like an answered prayer, promising both rail connection and water's proximity, practicality married to desire.
Through the town we drove, past the familiar architecture of regional Victoria—weatherboard houses with corrugated iron roofs, the obligatory pub anchoring the main street, shops that closed at five and all day Sunday. But we weren't seeking Seymour's modest urban offerings. Twenty minutes beyond the last street light, along roads that narrowed from bitumen to gravel to barely-there track, we found what the maps had promised: Major Creek.
To call it modest would be generosity. This was no mighty Murray, no scenic riverside paradise worthy of tourism brochures. Major Creek was quintessentially Australian in its understatement—a thin brown ribbon winding through eucalyptus and scrub, moving with the lethargy of thick honey on a cold morning. No amenities graced its banks, no designated camping spots with their numbered sites and regulation fire rings. Just red earth, river gums leaning over water like elderly philosophers pondering their own reflections, and the creek itself, pursuing its ancient conversation with gravity.
"Perfect," Anth declared as we pulled up, and we understood exactly what he meant. Not perfect in any conventional sense—no sunset views, no swimming holes, no remarkable features to photograph and share. Perfect in its absolute ordinariness, its complete lack of pretension or performance. This was honest Australian bush, unadorned and unashamed, offering nothing more than space, silence, and the steady whisper of moving water.
We positioned our golden home with practiced precision, close enough to hear the creek's nocturnal soliloquy but far enough to avoid morning's inevitable mosquito congregation. The absence of facilities that might deter others only emphasised our evolution as nomads. We carried our own power in solar panels and batteries, our own water in tanks, our own warmth in diesel heating. Self-sufficiency had transformed from challenge to liberation, each "lacking" campsite becoming opportunity to prove our independence from infrastructure's umbilical cord.
While many who embrace road life choose urban practicality when necessity calls—carparks behind shopping centres, street parking in industrial areas, the anonymous safety of well-lit truck stops—we would always choose nature's uncertainty over concrete's convenience. Even this humble creek, barely worthy of its cartographic notation, offered something no carpark could provide: the breathing space of wild places, the particular quality of darkness uninterrupted by streetlights, the morning chorus of birds who've never learned to fear human presence.
That first evening, as we prepared our simple meal and settled into our familiar routines, the creek performed its subtle magic. Its quiet persistence filled the spaces between conversation, neither demanding attention nor allowing itself to be forgotten. We found ourselves unconsciously timing activities to its rhythm—the gentle plop of water over hidden stones becoming metronome for our own movements. This wasn't the Murray's grand symphony but rather a lullaby hummed by landscape itself, intimate and hypnotic.
The two nights at Major Creek would leave no dramatic memories, no stories worthy of repeated telling. We wouldn't rush to recommend it to fellow travellers or mark it as must-see on any map. Yet in its very ordinariness lay its gift. Between the spectacular coastal adventures behind us and whatever lay ahead, this pause beside a modest creek offered recalibration. Not every camp needs to inspire poetry; sometimes the highest purpose is simply to provide safe harbour between life's larger movements.
As darkness wrapped around our bush sanctuary that first night, we listened to the creek maintaining its patient dialogue with time. Somewhere to the south, Melbourne's millions went about their evening routines, train lines carrying commuters home to mortgaged certainties. Somewhere ahead, Sal's workshop waited with its own demands and opportunities. But here, now, beside this unremarkable waterway, we existed in the space between—neither coming nor going, neither pursuing nor fleeing, simply being present in the generous embrace of Australian bush that asked nothing of us except perhaps to notice its quiet beauty.
This spot served its purpose perfectly, though perhaps not in ways we could have anticipated. It reminded us that in choosing always to seek nature over convenience, we weren't just selecting campsites but declaring values. Each modest creek chosen over comfortable carpark, each simple bush camp over serviced site, represented small rebellion against the assumption that comfort must be purchased, that beauty requires designation, that worth depends on recommendation algorithms and review scores.Læs mere
The Weight of Letting Go
3.–11. nov., Australien
The late afternoon light painted Sam and Eddie's property in amber hues as we pulled in, our bus settling into familiar ground with the satisfied sigh of machinery finding rest. Before we'd even switched off the engine, three furry sentinels erupted into a symphony of welcome—their tails creating whirlwinds of joy, their barks climbing octaves of recognition. These pooches, our temporary companions from the previous housesit, remembered us with the fierce loyalty only dogs possess, their entire bodies vibrating with the pure expression of reunion. Each wet nose pressed against our hands carried its own greeting, each wiggling form demanding acknowledgment that yes, we had returned, yes, we remembered them too.
Sam emerged with her characteristic easy smile, and we exchanged the kind of brief catch-up that new friendships allow—essential information shared, deeper conversations deferred. The bus welcomed us back into its embrace as evening settled, though sleep proved elusive. We lay listening to the night sounds of rural Victoria, our minds already racing ahead to tomorrow's journey. It's curious how anticipated change disrupts rest, as if our bodies rehearse departure even while attempting stillness. The restlessness felt familiar—that peculiar cocktail of excitement and logistics that precedes any significant transition.
Dawn arrived with the unwelcome enthusiasm of our pre-booked taxi, its early arrival catching us mid-preparation. Melbourne Cup Day—that peculiar Australian holiday when the nation stops for horses—had transformed our simple fifteen-minute journey to Kilmore station into an expensive proposition. The driver, apologetic but firm about holiday rates, navigated empty roads while our wallets lightened considerably. We watched familiar countryside slip past, calculating that this brief ride cost more than a year of camping fees, a reminder of how differently money flows in conventional life versus our nomadic existence.
The V-line train carried us southward with reliable efficiency, steel wheels maintaining rhythm while paddocks and townships blurred past windows. The subsequent bus connection felt like descending through transport hierarchy—from train's smooth glide to road's familiar bounce, each mode bringing us closer to aerial escape. Melbourne Airport emerged from urban sprawl like a promise of acceleration, its terminals humming with collective wanderlust.
The Virgin Lounge provided unexpected sanctuary. Anth's gold status—earned through countless flights to trials, universities, and our Japanese adventure—had transformed from abstract achievement to tangible comfort. We settled into plush chairs with proper coffee and substantial food, watching planes taxi beyond floor-to-ceiling windows while calculating how many bus camping nights this single lounge access might represent. The irony wasn't lost on us—our nomadic life had earned privileges in the very system we'd largely abandoned.
Sydney appeared and disappeared in the space of a connection, that massive harbour city reduced to corridor navigation and departure gate location. Then finally, Queensland's coastline materialised below, the Sunshine Coast's beaches drawing closer as our aircraft descended toward the gathering that made every kilometre worthwhile.
Torrin stood waiting at arrivals, flanked by Mack and his partner Lachie—our children transformed into confident adults yet still recognisable as the kids who'd once tumbled through our conventional life. The embrace that followed contained weeks of absence, stories untold, the particular ache of families who choose distance knowing its cost. Torrin's plan unfolded as we loaded into their car—Mooloolaba for birthday ice cream, a tradition maintained despite years and distance, celebrating both his and Soph's special days.
The beach town welcomed us with salt-tinged air and the familiar chaos of tourist infrastructure. Our expanded group—Teaque, Cory, and Luke joining from their own journeys, companions from the Japan adventure—created a constellation of connection around picnic tables. Ice cream melted faster than conversation flowed, stories of trials and travels weaving between spoonfuls of sweetness. Watching our kids interact with their friends, we glimpsed the adults they'd become in our absence—confident, caring, creating their own tribes while maintaining the core family bond.
Burgers replaced ice cream as afternoon became evening, casual dining extending our reunion beyond sugar into substance. The drive to Grammy's in Gympie carried contented exhaustion, our hearts full even as bodies flagged. Grammy's house—that constant in our nomadic equation—waited with familiar beds and the peculiar comfort of walls that don't move, floors that don't require levelling.
The next morning saw us splitting naturally along interest lines. Sal's hair appointment and coffee date with Mack provided mother-son connection and long-overdue maintenance—both hair and heart requiring attention. Meanwhile, Anth joined Torrin and the others for Noosa National Park, that stunning convergence of rainforest and ocean. The trails wound through pandanus and eucalyptus before emerging onto beaches where Pacific swells created endless percussion against ancient sand. Swimming in those waves, Torrin seemed to shed trial confinement like an outgrown skin, his joy in ocean and movement preparing him for greater adventures ahead.
His twenty-sixth birthday arrived with appropriate fanfare and flour. Anth commandeered Grammy's kitchen, though her Thermomix created philosophical crisis—was using such technology cheating in birthday cake creation? The Caribbean Carrot Cake that emerged, regardless of mechanical assistance, achieved the perfect balance of spice and sweetness that had marked family birthdays for decades. Torrin's delight at this continuation of tradition, even in Grammy's borrowed kitchen, reminded us why we maintain these rituals across distance and circumstance.
"Make another for my birthday," Grammy suggested, already calculating how many days early she'd be claiming her celebration. Anth obliged, the Thermomix grinding through second batch while we privately admitted the machine's efficiency had merit.
Preparing Torrin for Te Araroa consumed our remaining time—downloading apps, configuring his Garmin InReach emergency beacon, reviewing logistics that might mean difference between adventure and misadventure. His backpack, loaded with four months of life compressed into portable form, stood ready in Grammy's hallway like a patient companion. We ran through scenarios, checked and rechecked systems, our parental anxiety balanced against pride in his determination to walk New Zealand's length. Three thousand kilometres on foot—the number both thrilled and terrified us.
Pop's care facility provided sobering interlude. Dementia had claimed much of the man we'd known, leaving fragments that surfaced unpredictably between confusion. Yet when we spoke of Torrin's upcoming hike, something sparked in his eyes—recognition of adventure, perhaps memory of his own younger boldness. His excitement, though filtered through cognitive fog, felt genuine.
Airport departure lounges are theatres of transition, but this one carried particular weight. Torrin stood at security's threshold, his entire world compressed into the backpack that would be his sole companion through New Zealand's varied terrain. We maintained bright chatter about weather windows and resupply points, but underneath ran deeper currents—parental fear wrestling with admiration, the recognition that letting go enables becoming. His final wave before disappearing into the security maze carried characteristic confidence, our son stepping toward adventure we could only imagine.
Grammy drove us onward to Sal's parents, Grannie and Grandad providing final Queensland night before our return south. Their familiar welcome couldn't quite ease the fresh absence of Torrin's departure, though we appreciated the comfort of family surrounding us at both ends of our journey.
The return flight retraced our outbound path—Sydney's brief intermission, Melbourne's eventual embrace. This time, however, we bypassed the train's economy, choosing Uber's direct route despite rural pickup challenges. The driver navigated from urban familiarity to our rural sanctuary, the fare proving remarkably less than that Melbourne Cup morning's brief taxi ride—economics as mysterious as ever.
The bus welcomed us home with mechanical patience, systems awakening at our touch. One more night here at Sam and Eddie's before continuing our own journey. In the darkness, we could hear the dogs settling nearby, maintaining vigil over our temporary presence. Tomorrow we would roll onward, Torrin would be walking somewhere on North Island trails, and our family would continue its scattered yet connected existence—each pursuing individual adventures while maintaining the invisible threads that bind us across any distance.Læs mere
Swans, Storms, and Solitude
23. okt.–3. nov., Australien ⋅ ☁️ 19 °C
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.Læs mere
Between States and Rivers
17.–23. okt., Australien ⋅ ☀️ 25 °C
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.Læs mere
City Circuits and Forest Returns
16.–17. okt., Australien ⋅ ☀️ 26 °C
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.Læs mere
The Murray's Patient Classroom
7.–16. okt., Australien ⋅ ☀️ 19 °C
With food reserves completely depleted—our final wraps consumed that morning, the last coffee grounds surrendering their essence to breakfast ritual—Echuca beckoned with practical urgency. The riverside town had transformed from mere waypoint into vital resupply hub, its supermarkets and services now familiar territory after repeated visits. We moved through aisles with practiced efficiency, our trolley filling with provisions calculated against water capacity and Anth's upcoming Melbourne rescreening, each item chosen for versatility and longevity in our mobile pantry.
Leaving Echuca, we turned west to follow the Murray downstream, that ancient waterway whose patient flow had witnessed the extremes of our mainland journey. The river road wound between red gums and black box trees, occasionally revealing glimpses of the Murray's broad sweep through gaps in vegetation. Gunbower National Park stretched ahead—thousands of hectares of river forest and wetlands where hundreds of free camps dotted the Murray's meandering course. Among this embarrassment of riches, we'd chosen Masters Landing through careful WikiCamps research, its reviews promising solitude and river access without the crowds that plagued more accessible sites.
The entrance track led through towering black box trees whose dark canopy created shadowed tunnels, dust motes dancing in occasional shafts of afternoon sun. As we emerged at the camping area, an unexpected gift revealed itself—complete emptiness. Not a single vehicle occupied the sprawling riverside flat, as if the universe had reserved this entire sanctuary exclusively for our arrival. The embankment characteristic of this Murray region rose beside the river, flood mitigation engineering that inadvertently created elevated viewing platforms for those who knew where to position themselves.
"This is perfect," Sal breathed, surveying the open expanse with eyes that had learned to read landscapes for optimal camping. "Absolutely perfect."
Our golden Coaster possessed the feature that had initially seduced us into this nomadic life—full windows on both sides and rear, creating near-360-degree visibility broken only by the cab wall. This panoramic architecture had been the deciding factor when choosing our mobile home, transforming camping from mere overnight parking into immersive natural theatre. We positioned ourselves with deliberate precision atop the embankment's gentle slope, always aligning our panoramic views for maximum impact. Through the left windows, black box bushland stretched into darkness, their twisted forms creating organic sculptures against the sky. Through the right, the Murray flowed in its ancient rhythm, surface occasionally broken by jumping fish or gliding waterbirds.
Setting up camp had evolved into ritual so refined that completion took mere minutes—chairs positioned for sunset viewing, solar panels angled for morning harvest, outdoor kitchen established in the wind shadow. Some nights, the Firebox Freestyle emerged from storage when we craved the primal satisfaction of flame-cooked food. These evenings—sausages sizzling over wood coals, chicken developing that particular char only open fire provides—connected us to camping's essential traditions. The smoke that seasoned our meals carried essence of fallen branches and river air, each dinner becoming ceremony that honoured both place and process.
Wildlife arrived to inspect their new neighbours with characteristic Australian boldness. Sulphur-crested cockatoos became our constant companions, their harsh cries announcing dawn with reliability that rendered alarms redundant. These raucous birds, with their punk-rock crests and intelligent eyes, treated the surrounding trees as performance venues—hanging upside down from branches, conducting aerial arguments, their cacophony providing soundtrack to our days. Though they kept their distance from our camp itself, their presence remained constant, white forms against dark leaves like notes on nature's musical score.
Above the water, whistling kites prowled with patient persistence, following the river's course upstream and down in endless patrol. We watched them cruise on thermal currents, their distinctive calls piercing the air as they searched for opportunity below. Though we never witnessed successful strikes, their presence added drama to the riverscape, prehistoric silhouettes against clouds that shifted from grey to gold with passing hours.
Sal had entered the crucial phase of assignment completion, her university deadlines creating temporal boundaries within our otherwise fluid existence. We'd deliberately slowed our nomadic pace to accommodate her academic needs, choosing camps based on duration rather than variety. Our movements now followed water supply rather than wanderlust—when tanks ran low, we'd move; until then, we'd remain. This enforced stillness at Masters Landing revealed unexpected depths in familiar rhythms. The Murray's voice changed throughout the day—morning whispers, afternoon conversations, evening soliloquies—each phase offering different wisdom to those who listened.
"I need at least three more solid days," Sal announced, surveying her workload against our water gauge. "Can we stretch it?"
Without onboard shower facilities, water conservation came naturally. Each drop allocated with consideration, drinking and cooking prioritised over convenience. This conscious consumption connected us more deeply to our environment, transforming resource management from limitation into mindful practice.
Several days had passed in this productive tranquility when curiosity prompted exploration. Other campers had come and gone, staying single nights before continuing their journeys, but we'd grown attached to our embankment throne. Still, we wondered what other perspectives the Murray might offer along its extensive course. We drove both upstream and downstream, investigating three or four alternative sites that WikiCamps had marked as possibilities.
Each location offered its own character, yet they were all simply open spots on riverbanks, pleasant enough but lacking the particular combination that made Masters Landing special. None matched our spot's elevation advantage, crucial for solar panel efficiency. None provided the clear sky access our Starlink required for Sal's university work. Most importantly, none offered that perfect duality of bushland and river views that our wraparound windows could frame like living artwork.
"Nothing compares to what we already have," Anth confirmed as we returned to reclaim our position, relief evident that no newcomers had claimed our territory during reconnaissance.
Meanwhile, a mechanical ghost that had haunted us for over a year demanded exorcism. The rear airbag issue—first noticed in Zeehan during Grammy and Fran's Tasmanian visit—had persisted like an expensive shadow over our travels. Professional mechanics had quoted astronomical figures for complete system replacement, their estimates capable of funding months of fuel and food. But Anth's mechanical intuition, combined with methodical research and creative problem-solving, had finally yielded breakthrough.
"I've figured out a workaround," he announced one afternoon, emerging from beneath the bus with the particular satisfaction that comes from defeating expensive problems with ingenuity. "Zero cost, just needs manual adjustment instead of automatic."
The solution—elegantly simple once understood—bypassed the faulty automatic leveling system entirely. Rather than expensive electronic repairs, strategic manual intervention would maintain proper ride height. This victory felt particularly sweet given the problem's duration and the looming Melbourne rescreening deadline that made mechanical reliability essential.
Days at Masters Landing flowed like the river beside us—steady, purposeful, unhurried. Morning coffee consumed while watching mist rise from the Murray's surface. Midday heat driving us inside where academic work progressed in cooler comfort. Afternoon walks along the embankment, discovering new angles on familiar views, black box shadows lengthening as sun descended. Evening meals prepared on the Firebox when weather permitted, smoke mingling with river mist as darkness reclaimed the landscape.
The approaching Melbourne rescreening created our only temporal boundary—Anth's appointment representing both obligation and opportunity, potential trial participation promising funding for future adventures. But until that departure demanded action, we remained suspended in productive pause, the Murray flowing endlessly past our windows while assignments approached completion and mechanical problems yielded to persistent innovation.
This was the rhythm we'd learned to love—not constant movement but conscious stillness, not endless novelty but deepening appreciation for chosen spots. Masters Landing had provided exactly what we needed precisely when required: stable platform for academic focus, peaceful environment for mechanical problem-solving, and that rare combination of accessibility and isolation that made extended stays possible. The cockatoos would continue their harsh serenades whether we stayed or departed, the kites would patrol regardless of witnesses, the Murray would flow with or without our observation. But for these precious days, we were part of this riverine ecosystem, temporary residents in permanent landscape, our bus windows framing scenes that would linger in memory long after wheels resumed their turning.Læs mere
Ducklings, Deadlines, and Delays
1.–7. okt., Australien ⋅ 🌬 18 °C
The small town of Rochester materialised through morning mist, its practical offerings—post office, supermarket, fuel station—providing necessary waypoint for our nomadic logistics. We had scheduled four parcels to arrive here, modern conveniences reaching us through this rural collection point that had become temporary anchor in our fluid existence. The post office clerk greeted us with apologetic expression—only two of our expected four packages had materialised, the replacement tablet for our home automation dashboard and fresh protein powder waiting patiently while their companions remained somewhere in Australia Post's mysterious network.
"Seems to be the season for delayed parcels," we muttered, remembering Torrin's packages that had toured Victoria for weeks before finding their destinations.
The missing items—components crucial for Anth's ongoing transformation of our bus into smart home on wheels—meant we couldn't simply continue northward to the Murray River as planned. With our intended camp still an hour distant, practicality suggested finding intermediate sanctuary while awaiting postal resolution. WikiCamps revealed Aysons Reserve on the Campaspe River, a mere ten minutes south of Rochester—close enough for to return to the post office when required, yet removed enough to offer proper bush camping.
We stocked up on what we assumed would be a few days' worth of provisions, our shopping trolley reflecting modest expectations for this brief detention. The Campaspe River, we discovered, held its own quiet magic. The reserve stretched along the water's edge, attracting predominantly grey nomads in their substantial caravans who clustered near the amenities block with its promise of convenient facilities. We navigated past these suburban recreations, seeking something more aligned with our preference for natural immersion.
"There," Sal pointed toward the reserve's far boundary. "Right on the river's edge."
Indeed, the spot revealed itself like a gift—positioned at the very extremity of the camping area where the Campaspe curved in gentle arc, creating private river access from our chosen position. No neighbours pressed close, the nearest caravan a comfortable distance that preserved mutual privacy. The river itself ran clear and peaceful, its banks lined with river red gums whose roots created natural terraces down to the water. This quintessential Australian bush river scene unfolded directly from our windows—tinted glass that allowed us to observe without being observed, creating perfect wildlife blind.
"This'll do nicely for a night," Anth said, already calculating optimal positioning for morning sun and evening river views.
Friday arrived with continued postal disappointment—the packages remained in transit limbo, their tracking information offering vague promises without concrete delivery dates. Our single night would necessarily stretch across the weekend, but rather than frustration, we felt unexpected relief. The weekend crowds would depart, leaving us with riverfront solitude. Our position had already begun working its subtle magic, the enforced pause transforming from inconvenience into opportunity.
The weekend's exodus delivered as predicted, caravans departing in Sunday afternoon convoy. That's when we truly discovered what Aysons Reserve had been quietly offering—a front-row seat to nature's intimate theatre. A pair of Wood Ducks had chosen the reeds near our camp as nursery, their clutch of ducklings barely days old. These tiny balls of fluff, twelve in total, provided endless entertainment as they navigated their aquatic world with determination that belied their diminutive size.
Each morning brought the same anxious ritual—counting tiny heads to ensure all twelve had survived the night. We'd watch from our windows as the parent ducks conducted their own morning census, leading their offspring in single file along the riverbank. The relief when all twelve appeared, bobbing like animated cotton balls on the water, became part of our daily emotional rhythm. These small survivals against nocturnal predators and natural hazards felt like personal victories, as if our witnessing somehow contributed to their protection.
"All twelve present and accounted for," Sal would announce with satisfaction after the morning count, the duckling parade passing our camp in perfect formation.
The weekend ebbed into weekdays with liquid grace, our temporary detention evolving into chosen residence. The weather, as if celebrating spring's arrival combined with our northern inland position, delivered near perfection. This meteorological generosity felt like compensation for Victoria's previous cold and wind, nature apologising with this gift of ideal conditions.
Sal immersed herself in her new role with Ritual Movement, the online fitness company position that had emerged from Kara Kara's serendipity. Her laptop claimed permanent position at our table, Starlink providing reliable connection that transformed our riverside camp into professional office. The work aligned perfectly with our lifestyle—coaching women through their fitness journeys while living our own unconventional adventure. Between client sessions, university assignments demanded attention, the final push toward trimester completion requiring focused effort despite the river's constant invitation to abandon academia for exploration.
"This is actually perfect," Sal observed during one afternoon break, watching sunlight dance across the water while her laptop hummed with client communications. "Better than any office view I've ever had."
Anth received positive news about his recent screening, yet after consideration, he made the decision that family trumped finance—he would skip this trial to ensure availability for Torrin's birthday celebration and New Zealand send-off. The Te Araroa trail beckoned their son toward solo adventure, that thousand-mile traverse of New Zealand requiring proper farewell. Some moments couldn't be reclaimed, some occasions demanded presence over profit.
Days accumulated with surprising speed. What began as overnight pause had stretched toward a full week, our one-day food supply requiring creative rationing and eventual supplementation. The Campaspe held us in its gentle embrace, each sunset painting the river gold, each morning bringing successful duckling counts, each day proving that sometimes the universe's delays delivered exactly what we didn't know we needed.
When one package finally arrived—not all, but enough to justify departure—we faced unexpected reluctance. Six nights had transformed Aysons Reserve from unwanted detention to treasured sanctuary. The Campaspe River had provided something we hadn't realised we'd been missing—extended stillness without obligation, productivity without pressure, nature's entertainment without effort. Our dwindling supplies and single package provided excuse rather than reason for departure, but the Murray River called from the north, and Echuca promised proper resupply for whatever adventures lay ahead.
Our final morning arrived with bittersweet recognition. We conducted our last duckling census—all twelve still miraculously present, slightly larger and more confident than when we'd first met them. The parent ducks performed their morning parade as if providing farewell performance, leading their offspring past our camp one last time. We packed with unusual slowness, each item secured with care that suggested reluctance rather than efficiency. The Campaspe had surprised us—this modest river we'd never heard of before necessity brought us to its banks had provided perfect interlude between adventures.
"Safe travels, little ones," Sal whispered to the ducklings through the window as we prepared to leave. Their survival remained uncertain—predators, weather, and countless hazards awaited—but for one week we'd been privileged witnesses to their earliest adventures, their first explorations of a world vast beyond their comprehension.
As we drove north toward Echuca, following the Campaspe's path toward its confluence with the Murray, we carried more than just our partially complete parcel collection. We carried memories of perfect spring days beside an unassuming river, of tiny ducklings brave beyond their size, of work accomplished in the most beautiful office imaginable. Aysons Reserve had transformed from postal purgatory to paradise found, proving once again that our journey's best moments often emerged from delays and diversions, that sometimes the universe's timing surpassed our own planning's wisdom.
The Murray River awaited with its ancient flow and grander reputation, but the little Campaspe had earned its place in our hearts. Some stops were destinations, others mere waypoints. Aysons Reserve had been scheduled as neither but became both—a perfect pause that reminded us why we'd chosen this life of fluid plans and flexible expectations, where six nights by an unknown river could become treasured chapter in our ever-expanding story.Læs mere
When Places Call You Back
24. sep.–1. okt., Australien ⋅ ☁️ 17 °C
The landscape transformed around us as we settled into the drive northward, vast canola fields suddenly dominating every horizon with their explosive golden bloom. These brilliant yellow oceans stretched endlessly beneath winter sky, their luminous carpets creating such vivid contrast against grey clouds that we found ourselves repeatedly pulling over simply to absorb the spectacle. The timing of our journey had accidentally aligned with peak flowering season, nature providing unexpected visual feast that transformed ordinary farmland into something approaching transcendence.
"It's like driving through Van Gogh's dreams," Sal breathed, her camera inadequate to capture the intensity of colour that surrounded us. These fields, practical crop to farmers but pure artistry to travellers, marked our transition from forest to agricultural heartland with emphatic golden punctuation.
Kyneton appeared through the yellow haze like a Victorian time capsule, its heritage streetscapes offering necessary pause for both practical needs and historical appreciation. The laundromat—that reliable constant in nomadic life—hummed with mechanical efficiency while our linens tumbled toward freshness. These mundane interludes had become almost meditative, the forced pause while washing machines completed their cycles providing unexpected pockets of stillness in our constantly moving existence.
A nearby café beckoned with promises of warmth and sustenance, and after fortifying ourselves with coffee and a quick bite, Anth's geocaching instincts drew him toward different treasure. The Bluestone Theatre, that 1859 architectural survivor, harboured a cache within its historic grounds. While our clothes spun through their cleansing cycles, he navigated the GPS coordinates with practiced precision, adding another find to his ever-growing collection. The juxtaposition of using satellite technology to find hidden containers at a pre-federation theatre captured perfectly the temporal layers through which we constantly moved—modern nomads tracing ancient paths with digital assistance.
"Got it," Anth announced upon return, satisfaction evident despite the cache being merely another number in his statistics. Each find represented small victory, proof that even in transit we could engage meaningfully with places passed through.
Our water tanks, those vital reservoirs that enabled our independence, demanded attention before continuing northward. The mainland's water accessibility had proven frustratingly different from Tasmania's generous abundance. There, pristine streams and public taps had spoiled us with easy replenishment—water available seemingly everywhere, clean and free. Here in Victoria, finding suitable fill points required strategic planning and WikiCamps consultation, each water stop carefully noted for future reference like prospectors marking gold deposits.
The app revealed salvation just south of our destination—a public tap that promised the precious resource without requiring campground fees or awkward requests at service stations. We navigated to these coordinates with the particular urgency that comes from tanks reading low, the successful fill bringing disproportionate satisfaction. Water secured meant freedom continued, our self-sufficiency maintained for days ahead.
The final approach to Greens Lake stirred unexpected emotion. As Anth guided us toward the camping area, seeking optimal position among scattered options, an almost unconscious navigation occurred. The spot that called to us—level, lakefront, perfectly oriented for morning sun—felt immediately familiar. Only after we'd settled did realisation dawn: we had chosen almost the exact location where Sal and Sophie had camped weeks earlier during the men's trial absence.
"This is it," Sal said with wonder, recognising specific trees, the particular angle of lake view. "Sophie and I were right here."
This unconscious return to identical coordinates felt significant beyond coincidence. Perhaps places called to people in ways beyond conscious recognition, or perhaps our needs and preferences had become so refined that we naturally gravitated toward optimal spots. Either way, settling into this familiar-yet-different space created temporal vertigo—past and present overlapping, the ghost of mother-daughter time haunting our couple's retreat.
The discovery that made this location truly special revealed itself through memory rather than exploration. During their previous stay's final moments, Sal and Sophie had discovered that the amenities block's showers—assumed cold like most free camps—actually provided gloriously hot water. This knowledge transformed our experience from grateful acceptance to delighted indulgence. Hot showers at free camps represented such rarity that their presence felt like winning some cosmic lottery, luxury typically reserved for paid campgrounds available here without cost or crowds.
"Still can't believe these are hot and free," Sal marvelled after her first shower, steam still rising from her skin in the cool evening air.
As the weekend approached, vehicle numbers began multiplying with concerning speed. Cars and caravans appeared like mushrooms after rain, families and groups claiming territories across the camping area. Only when we checked the date did understanding dawn—the Labour Day long weekend, marking spring's official arrival in Victoria. This explained the unusual crowd density, city-dwellers seizing the extended break to shed winter's confinement and embrace outdoor possibilities.
Yet our waterfront position, so appealing to us with its unobstructed lake views and morning sun exposure, seemed to hold less attraction for the weekend warriors. Most newcomers clustered in a different area, perhaps preferring the shelter of trees or the social proximity of group camping. We remained relatively isolated despite the crowd, our spot maintaining its sense of peaceful separation even as the broader campground filled with voices and generators.
The weather, as if celebrating spring's arrival, delivered near perfection. Sunshine dominated our days with warmth that invited shirt removal by afternoon yet remained comfortable rather than oppressive. Occasional wind provided nature's air conditioning, though a few days brought gusts strong enough to rock our substantial vehicle—reminders that Victorian weather maintained its capricious reputation regardless of season. These windy intervals felt almost nostalgic, echoing our Tasmanian experiences where wind had been constant companion rather than occasional visitor.
"Proper spring weather," Anth observed with satisfaction, solar panels drinking deeply of abundant sunshine. "Couldn't have asked for better timing."
The long weekend's conclusion brought exodus as dramatic as the arrival had been. By onday morning, the campground had emptied as suddenly as it had filled, leaving only us and a handful of other long-term wanderers scattered along the shoreline. This transformation from crowded to empty felt like watching time-lapse photography in reverse, civilisation retreating to leave nature and silence in charge once more.
Greens Lake might have lacked the dramatic bushland setting of our favourite camps, the abundant wildlife of coastal locations, or the mountain views of highland stops. Yet it served perfectly as what we'd intended—a stepping stone between adventures, a peaceful pause before continuing northward to the Murray River. Sometimes places served not as destinations but as bridges, valuable not for what they offered but for what they enabled.
Our time here carried additional resonance through its layered history. Sal camping here with Sophie, now returning with Anth, the same spot holding different configurations of our family at different times. These overlapping experiences created depth in places, transforming simple coordinates into repositories of memory and meaning. The lake itself remained unchanged, indifferent to our human dramas and reunions, yet somehow enriched by the stories we'd written upon its shores.
As we prepared for departure toward the Murray River—that mighty waterway that had witnessed our nomadic journey's tentative beginning—we carried Greens Lake differently than we might have without its connections to our recent past. It had become not just a pleasant camping spot but a landmark in our family's evolving story, a place where paths crossed and recrossed, where mother-daughter adventures gave way to partnership's resumption, where the continuous thread of our journey revealed itself through return and recognition.
The golden canola fields would fade from view, the hot showers would become pleasant memory, the crowds would gather and disperse in their eternal urban-rural tide. But this spot beside Greens Lake had earned its place in our internal atlas—not for its spectacular beauty or unique features, but for its role as witness to our family's fluid geometry, its patient holding of our various configurations, its quiet proof that places could be both stepping stones and destinations, depending entirely on who stood upon their shores and when.Læs mere
Between Forest and Future
23.–24. sep., Australien ⋅ ☁️ 14 °C
The forest released us reluctantly, its towering eucalypts giving way to pastoral landscapes as we navigated toward Wallan. Our morning carried dual purpose—practical decluttering and necessary transit—as we prepared for the orchestrated dance of trial screenings and family logistics. The weight plates that had accompanied our journey from its beginning now represented unnecessary ballast, their rigid iron replaced months ago by the elegant simplicity of resistance bands that could transform any space into gymnasium.
The train station car park became impromptu marketplace as our buyer arrived, cash exchanging hands while commuters rushed past our small transaction. These plates had witnessed our transformation from conventional life to nomadic existence, their weight once grounding us in routine, now released to ground someone else's fitness journey. The symbolism wasn't lost on us—shedding physical weight as we continued lightening our material load, each possession released making space for experience rather than objects.
Anth and Torrin disappeared into the V-Line's embrace, the regional train whisking them toward Melbourne with efficiency that validated our strategic positioning. The train had become unexpected ally in our trial participation—connecting rural refuges to urban obligations without requiring us to navigate the bus through city congestion. From our forest camp to metropolitan screening in mere hours, public transport bridging worlds that felt philosophically distant despite geographical proximity.
Sal remained with the bus, transforming our mobile home into temporary office. University assignments demanded attention regardless of location, her laptop balanced on the table while academic theories merged with the practical education of nomadic life. This ability to maintain conventional obligations while living unconventionally had become source of quiet pride—proof that alternative lifestyles need not mean abandoning intellectual pursuits.
The men's return brought news of smooth screening success and additional commerce—board games that had entertained us through Tasmanian winters now passing to new owners met at the city's edge. Each sale represented conscious curation of our possessions, keeping only what served multiple purposes or brought irreplaceable joy. The cash from these transactions would fund groceries, diesel, the small expenses that kept our journey flowing forward.
"Both screened successfully," Anth reported with satisfaction. "Smooth as silk."
Yet Torrin's dawn flight loomed, requiring strategic positioning for airport proximity. WikiCamps and Google Maps offered various suggestions, but nothing resonated with our instincts for appropriate overnight sanctuary. Sometimes digital wisdom fell short of intuitive navigation, prompting us to simply drive and trust that suitable spot would reveal itself—a practice that rarely disappointed.
Hunger intervened before solution, the men's pre-screening fast demanding immediate attention. The pizza shop appeared like an oasis, its warm interior and aromatic offerings providing perfect pause for recalibration. Over shared slices, we discussed options while cheese stretched between bites, the simple pleasure of hot food after enforced abstinence adding sweetness to our planning session.
"There," Anth pointed through the window toward a quiet street. "That looks promising."
Indeed, our instincts proved reliable. The spot materialised less than fifteen minutes from the airport—a discrete position beside a neighbourhood park, apartment buildings providing urban camouflage while streetlight offered security without intrusion. We'd become expert at reading these urban margins, finding pockets where our presence would pass unnoticed, where morning departure would leave no trace of our temporary occupation.
One final transaction punctuated our evening as another board game buyer arrived, their headlights briefly illuminating our compact domesticity. They admired our setup with the particular interest of someone who understood alternative living, asking questions about solar panels and water systems while completing their purchase. These encounters with curious strangers had become regular feature of our journey, each interaction spreading seeds of possibility about different ways to inhabit the world.
"Living the dream," they said with genuine appreciation before departing with their game.
Dawn arrived with purpose rather than leisure. The airport run had become familiar ritual—family members flowing in and out of our nomadic orbit as their own lives permitted. Torrin's stay had been characteristically brief but densely packed with shared experience, his presence adding different energy to our mobile constellation. At the departure drop-off, our farewell carried the weight of practice—we'd become expert at these temporary separations, understanding that our unconventional family structure meant constant cycles of gathering and dispersing.
The morning stretched before us with unexpected possibility. Our original plan had targeted the Otways once more—those ancient forests calling us back to their ferned embrace. Yet as we sat over coffee, maps spread across our phones, different magnetism pulled our compass needle northward. The Murray River beckoned from the top of Victoria, that mighty waterway where we'd paused so briefly at our nomadic journey's beginning, when everything was new and uncertain.
"What about going north instead?" Sal suggested, voicing what we'd both been thinking. "Back to the Murray, but this time knowing what we're doing."
The decision made itself with the fluid ease that characterised our best choices. But first, Green's Lake—that peaceful sanctuary where Sal and Sophie had sheltered during the men's previous trial, where mother-daughter bonds had strengthened over shared solitude and academic focus. The circular nature of these returns appealed to us, revisiting places with accumulated wisdom, seeing familiar landscapes through eyes educated by eighteen months of wandering.
Our route would trace memory's path backward—Green's Lake's quiet waters reflecting not just sky but our own transformation since last visiting. Then northward to the Murray, that river which had witnessed our tentative first steps into nomadic life, when we still questioned whether this radical lifestyle change would prove sustainable. Now we would return as seasoned travelers, our bus no longer unfamiliar vessel but trusted home, our movements guided by experience rather than experiment.
As we navigated away from Melbourne's gravitational pull once more, the familiar satisfaction of departure filled our small cabin. Cities served their purpose—trials and reunions, supplies and services—but our souls calibrated to different frequencies. The forest camp already felt like distant memory, Torrin's presence already shifting from current to recent, our journey's next chapter already writing itself in the space between where we'd been and where we were going.
The beauty of our lifestyle revealed itself most clearly in moments like these—when plans could shift with weather's fluidity, when return wasn't retreat but intentional spiral, when every ending became beginning. Green's Lake awaited with its promise of peaceful pause, the Murray beyond that with its ancient flow, and somewhere further still, adventures we couldn't yet imagine but trusted would reveal themselves exactly when needed.Læs mere
Power Trails and Old Friends
12.–23. sep., Australien ⋅ ☁️ 11 °C
For the first time in months, our bus carried only its original crew—just Sal and Anth navigating the familiar roads with unfamiliar lightness. The absence of additional voices, belongings, and energy created space we hadn't realised had been compressed. Not that we'd minded the company—Sophie's month-long presence had enriched our journey, Torrin's companionship had added new dimensions to our adventures—but returning to our foundational configuration felt like slipping into well-worn boots, comfortable in their perfect familiarity.
We headed east from the house-sit, leaving behind weeks of suburban comfort and birthday celebrations that still glowed warm in memory. The town of Kilmore lay less than thirty minutes ahead, its practical offerings—supermarket, fuel station, water fill—providing necessary provisioning for our return to bush life. As we moved through aisles selecting supplies for the coming week, we found ourselves automatically reaching for quantities suited to two rather than three or four, our shopping trolley reflecting this return to simpler mathematics.
"Feels strange buying wraps for just us," Sal observed, holding a packet that would have disappeared in days with Torrin's appetite contributing to consumption. Now it would last the week, this small detail marking the shift in our domestic economy.
WikiCamps had revealed Mount Disappointment State Forest during our house-sitting research sessions—the unusually named Number One Camp promising dispersed sites among mountain ash and stringybark eucalypts. The name itself had sparked curiosity; Mount Disappointment allegedly christened by explorers Hamilton Hume and William Hovell in 1824 when the summit failed to provide the panoramic views they'd anticipated. We hoped the camping would prove less disappointing than the historical naming suggested.
The Friday afternoon arrival coincided with weekend warriors claiming their temporary territories. Cars and four-wheel drives scattered throughout the camping area, each group establishing their brief sovereignty over patches of forest floor. We navigated through the occupied sites, eventually discovering something unexpected—the remnants of a World War II Italian POW camp, marked by concrete slab and an information board revealing this forest's hidden history. The site sat in the open near the road, exposed but historically significant, and crucially, unclaimed by other campers.
"Camping next to history," Anth observed as we positioned ourselves beside these wartime ghosts. "Those Italian prisoners probably never imagined recreational vehicles would one day occupy their forced accommodation."
The weekend unfolded with predictable rhythms. Day-trippers arrived each morning, their dirt bikes roaring through forest trails in mechanical swarms that shattered the peace. Families established elaborate camps for single nights, their generators and music creating suburban bubbles within the wilderness. We observed this weekly migration with anthropological detachment, understanding that for many, these brief escapes represented precious freedom from urban routine. By Sunday afternoon, the exodus began—cars loaded, bikes secured, the forest gradually reclaiming its quietude until we stood nearly alone among the towering trees.
When weekday arrived, the forest transformed completely. Wind became our new companion, howling through the canopy with such force that trees swayed in hypnotic dance. The sound built from whisper to roar, punctuated by the crack of falling branches and the groan of wood pushed beyond comfortable limits. Dust clouds rose from fire trails, swirling through shafts of sunlight like earthbound spirits made visible.
"Listen to that," Sal said during one particularly intense gust, the bus actually rocking slightly despite its substantial weight. "The forest sounds alive."
Our position in the open, while exposing us to wind's full force, proved strategically safer than sheltering beneath large trees—a lesson learned through countless camps where weather turned benign giants into potential hazards. We could enjoy the wind's performance without fearing its consequences, secure in our wheeled sanctuary while nature conducted its symphony around us.
Anth's ankle, still recovering from its Lake Lonsdale rebellion, had healed sufficiently for careful activity. The discovery of geocaching power trails throughout the forest provided perfect rehabilitation—moderate exercise with purpose beyond mere movement. He'd set off each morning, sometimes walking, occasionally attempting short runs, following GPS coordinates to hidden caches tucked throughout the forest. His satisfaction at adding dozens of finds to his growing total carried beyond mere numbers; each successful cache represented another step toward full recovery.
"Over 30 today," he announced after one particularly productive expedition, his ankle showing no signs of protest. "This forest is geocaching paradise."
The unexpected message from Justin transformed our week entirely. We'd last seen him over a year ago, watching his farewell to Tasmania as he left Lake Peddar for mainland adventures. Now, circling back through Victoria en route to beginning another Tasmanian chapter, his path intersected ours with timing that felt orchestrated by cosmic GPS. His message promised arrival soon, carrying stories of northern adventures and future plans.
When Justin's familiar van appeared through the trees, the reunion felt like recovering a missing piece from our journey's puzzle. His embrace carried the warmth of shared history—those final Tasmanian days when he'd been part of our nomadic constellation, the adventures shared before paths diverged. Over coffee brewed on the Pomoly, stories flowed like the wind still rushing through canopy above.
"Can't believe it's been a year," Justin marvelled, looking simultaneously older and younger—the paradox of travel's effect on those who embrace it fully. "Feels like yesterday and forever ago."
He and Sal joined Anth on his geocaching expeditions, their eight-kilometre walks becoming mobile storytelling sessions. Each cache discovered prompted another tale—Justin's Queensland adventures, our mainland transitions, the strange synchronicities that seemed to follow those who chose unconventional paths. The forest absorbed their laughter and conversation, three friends whose connection transcended time and distance, proving that some relationships don't require constant proximity to remain vital.
Justin's departure carried inevitable poignancy. His Spirit of Tasmania booking beckoned, that familiar ferry ready to transport him back to the island we'd loved so deeply. We stood together in the forest clearing, none of us particularly skilled at goodbyes despite their frequency in our chosen lifestyle.
"See you in Tassie," he said with certainty that made it promise rather than possibility. "When you come back—and you will come back—I'll be there."
The synchronicity of trial screenings created unexpected convergence. Anth's Melbourne appointment aligned perfectly with Torrin's screening date—different trials, same timing, despite Torrin organising his participation from Queensland. Plans crystallised quickly—Torrin would fly down, we'd collect him from the airport, the family unit reforming for another clinical adventure.
Practicality sent us back to Kilmore for essential restocking. Water tanks topped up, diesel replenished, fresh food secured—the mundane tasks that enabled extraordinary living. We moved through these routines with practiced efficiency, each errand a small investment in continued freedom. Better to handle necessities now than navigate them with airport timing pressuring our schedule.
"Can't believe Torrin's screening lined up perfectly," Sal observed as we returned to camp. "What are the odds?"
The airport run carried its own minor drama. Following GPS directions toward what promised to be convenient airport access, we found ourselves ascending an on-ramp that suddenly sprouted height restriction warnings. The barriers loomed ahead like giant's gates, our bus clearly exceeding their tolerance. As we stopped, uncertain how to proceed, security arrived quickly, their efficient response suggesting this wasn't their first encounter with oversized vehicles attempting this route. They blocked the road behind us while Anth guided our reversing manoeuvre down the ramp, other drivers waiting with varying degrees of patience and amusement.
"Well, that was exciting," Anth muttered, sweat beading despite winter temperatures. "Note to self: check clearances before committing to airport routes."
Alternative navigation eventually delivered us safely to arrivals, where Torrin emerged with backpack and stories of his preparations for his New Zealand hike His presence immediately shifted our dynamic back to trio configuration, the bus suddenly fuller but somehow more complete. Rather than seeking new camps near Melbourne's orbit, we collectively decided to return to Mount Disappointment—the known sanctuary preferable to uncertain alternatives when darkness approached.
The drive back through state forest darkness provided unexpected entertainment. Torrin watched the thermal camera, its screen mounted on the dashboard revealing the forest's hidden nightlife. Kangaroos appeared as glowing shapes beside the road, their presence invisible to normal vision but clearly displayed on the electronic display. Each sighting prompted excited commentary, the technology transforming ordinary transit into nocturnal safari.
"There! Three more on the left," Torrin called out, watching the screen intently. "This thing is incredible."
Our final night at Number One Camp felt like gentle conclusion to an unexpectedly rich chapter. What had begun as simple forest retreat had evolved into reunion venue, rehabilitation ground, and launching pad for next adventures. The wind had calmed to whispers, the weekend crowds remained days away, and we three settled into familiar evening routines—Torrin setting up his tent beside the old POW site, Sal preparing dinner, Anth planning tomorrow's journey to Wallan's V-Line station.
The next morning arrived with purpose. Both Anth and Torrin needed to catch the V-Line into Melbourne for their trial obligations, the train from Wallan providing direct access to the city's medical precinct. As we packed up camp, the forest held us in its ancient embrace one last time. Tomorrow would bring trains and trials, urban necessities and medical assessments. But tonight we remained suspended between adventures, our small family reconstituted, our mobile home parked precisely where it belonged—in the margin between civilisation and wilderness, that liminal space where we'd learned to thrive.Læs mere
When Family Makes Everything Whole
24. aug.–12. sep., Australien ⋅ ☀️ 12 °C
The approach to Bendigo carried practical purpose rather than wanderlust—Anth's vision of transforming our bus into a 'smart' home required specific components that only proper city suppliers could provide. His enthusiasm for home automation had evolved from idle interest into active pursuit, each upgrade promising to enhance our mobile life with technological convenience. The oil for our bus's first self-administered service added another layer of independence to our nomadic existence, marking our transition from reliant travellers to capable maintainers of our rolling home.
With supplies secured and mechanical necessities addressed, we pointed toward Lancefield, where an extraordinary convergence awaited. What had begun as a simple house-sitting arrangement had blossomed into something far more significant—Sal's fiftieth birthday celebration reimagined as family reunion, our scattered children and Grannie converging from various corners of Australia to mark this milestone together. The timing felt orchestrated by benevolent forces: Sophie's trial ending on the exact day, Torrin already travelling with us, flights aligning with uncanny precision.
The forty-acre property revealed itself through rural roads that wound between paddocks and past weathered farmhouses, each turn taking us deeper into Victorian countryside. Meeting our charges—Cooper, Minnie, and Spud—felt like being assessed by a furry welcoming committee, each dog displaying distinct personality that would colour our coming weeks. Eddie, their owner, radiated the particular relief of someone entrusting beloved companions to capable hands, his detailed instructions revealing the depth of care these animals received.
"Cooper's the boss," Eddie explained, while the dignified dog in question seemed to nod agreement. "Minnie's the sweetheart, and Spud... well, Spud's just chaos in canine form."
Settling into house life after months of bus living felt simultaneously foreign and familiar. The luxury of unlimited hot water, electric blankets warming beds to perfect temperature, rooms that didn't sway in wind—these conveniences we'd once taken for granted now felt almost decadent. Yet our bus remained parked close by, a reassuring presence that reminded us this domestic interlude was temporary indulgence rather than return to conventional existence.
Victoria's weather, however, seemed determined to test our appreciation for solid walls and central heating. Each day brought different meteorological challenge—bitter cold that penetrated even our borrowed house's defences, wind that howled like banshees through the paddocks, rain arriving in sheets that obscured the horizon. One morning, Sal ventured out for firewood only to find herself caught in an unexpected snow flurry, the white flakes swirling around her like nature's reminder that Victorian winter demanded respect regardless of shelter quality.
"It's July in Victoria," she laughed, shaking snow from her hair as she returned with armload of wood. "What did we expect—tropical paradise?"
Birthday wishes and packages began accumulating at the local post office, each collection adding to the growing pile of celebration. Torrin's parcels, however, seemed cursed by mislabeling, touring Victoria's postal system like reluctant sightseers before eventually finding their way to Lancefield. These logistical adventures provided daily entertainment as we tracked packages across the state, wondering if they'd arrive before the birthday girl turned fifty-one.
A follow-up outpatient appointment interrupted our rural rhythm, requiring Torrin and Anth to navigate public transport's rural tentacles. The V-Line from Riddells Creek into Melbourne represented new adventure—these regional trains that stretched Victoria's urban reach into countryside, connecting rural communities to city services. Torrin's appointment lasted mere minutes, the easiest $250 he'd earned in his young life, but the journey itself provided education in mainland Australia's transport infrastructure so different from our self-contained bus travel.
Between rain showers, Anth seized opportunities to advance his bus modification projects. Each break in weather saw him outside with tools and determination, installing smart switches, running new wiring, conducting our first oil change with the focused intensity of someone performing sacred ritual. These improvements weren't mere tinkering but investment in our future comfort, each upgrade extending our capacity for independent travel.
Then came the day that transformed everything—Sal's fiftieth birthday arriving not as single celebration but as opening act of what would become four-day festival of family. Sophie appeared first at the nearby train station, fresh from her Melbourne trial completion, her arrival marking the beginning of our gathering tribe. An hour later, the remaining cast arrived via Uber from Melbourne Airport—our children and their partners, plus Grannie, all emerging from the vehicle like clowns from a circus car, their joy at reunion infectious.
"Best birthday gift ever!" Sal exclaimed, tears mixing with laughter as arms enveloped her from every direction.
The house that had felt spacious with just three of us suddenly hummed with energy. Conversations overlapped in the kitchen where Sal's meticulously pre-planned meals came to life through many hands working together. Laughter echoed from the living room where card games evolved into storytelling sessions. The dogs, initially overwhelmed by the sudden population explosion, quickly adapted, understanding that more humans meant more attention and likely more dropped food.
Torrin's rich mud cake for the birthday celebration represented hours of careful preparation, its decadent layers testimony to skills developed during his Japanese adventures. The following day brought his coconut and white chocolate creation for Father's Day—back-to-back celebrations that blurred into one continuous expression of family love. We played games that devolved into hilarity, consequences revealing embarrassing secrets and impossible scenarios, cards scattered across tables while wine glasses emptied and refilled.
Jack and Nic's arrival added another dimension to our celebration, old friendships mixing seamlessly with family bonds. Their presence reminded us that chosen family could be as precious as blood relations, that the connections we'd maintained despite our nomadic absence remained strong and vital. Games continued late into the night, punctuated by Eddie's dogs demanding their scheduled walks, forcing us outside into Victorian winter where breath clouded and stars pierced through clear skies.
Yet all celebrations must end, and too soon we stood at the departure point, watching our children and Grannie disappear toward airport and responsibilities. The silence that followed felt profound—not peaceful but empty, the house suddenly too large, too quiet, too still. Sal moved through rooms that still held echoes of laughter, and we both felt the particular ache that comes from intense togetherness followed by separation.
"The house feels wrong now," Sal admitted, standing in the kitchen that had been command centre for family feasts. "Like all the colour drained out when they left."
For days, we moved through necessary tasks—repacking the bus, cleaning the house to pristine condition, maintaining routines with Cooper, Minnie, and Spud—but melancholy shadowed our actions. The heart-strings pulled taut by distance found some comfort in planning Christmas reunion in Queensland, that future gathering providing beacon through present sadness. Four months felt simultaneously brief and eternal, time stretching and compressing depending on emotional weather.
Eventually, practical momentum overcame emotional inertia. The bus required attention, the house needed final cleaning, three canine friends deserved proper farewells. Cooper maintained his dignity during goodbye pats, Minnie's tail drooped with apparent sadness, while Spud ricocheted between us with characteristic chaos, unable to settle on appropriate farewell behaviour. We left them with Eddie's returning embrace, our house-sitting duties complete, our hearts still tender from family separation.
As we rolled away from Lancefield's rural embrace, the bus felt properly ours again—smaller than the house but right-sized for two souls adjusting to renewed solitude. The open road beckoned with its reliable medicine for melancholy, each kilometre adding distance from goodbye while reducing distance to next hello. Christmas would come, Queensland awaited, our family would gather again. But for now, we carried the warmth of Sal's birthday season like internal flame, those four days of togetherness providing fuel for whatever adventures lay ahead.
The celebration had been everything we'd hoped—not just marking Sal's half-century milestone but proving our nomadic life hadn't fractured family bonds. If anything, the intensity of our reunions seemed magnified by separation, each gathering carrying weight and meaning that daily proximity might have diluted. We'd given Sal the gift she most wanted—not things but people, not presents but presence, not a day but a season of love made manifest through gathered family.Læs mere