The River Returned

I’ve never lived through a drought like this one. Not here.

It’s the first time I’ve really felt it — in my body, in my days.

Trees I planted just a few years ago are dying. Grasses that once moved like waves in the wind are shrivelling into the dirt. And the river… bone dry. The whole bottom paddock’s been too hard to visit. I just stopped going, quietly. Like if I didn’t look, maybe it wouldn’t be quite so real.

I reckon we all do that sometimes — turn away from what’s too much.

People around us are just getting on with it. Mowing lawns, school runs, posting food pics — like the land’s not screaming underneath it all. And I get it. You can’t live cracked open all the time.

But I’ve felt this quiet sadness sitting in me these last few months. That low ache when you know something you love is suffering and there’s not much you can do to stop it.

Then, one night, I just said to James, “We’ve got to go down there. Let’s camp by the river.”

It was full moon. We packed the swag, took a good bottle of Ngeringa Syrah, and just sat there in the dust where water used to run.

And then — no joke — we heard it. A trickle at first. Then the soft gurgle of flow.

The river came back. Just like that.

We looked at each other like, is this really happening?

It didn’t flood or anything — just enough to move. Enough to remind us not to give up. Not to stop noticing.

We’re lucky in a lot of ways. We’re not farming to survive — not in the old-school sense. But it still hurts, watching land you love dry up. Watching life disappear from places you’re trying to bring back.

This whole drought has stripped things back for me. Slowed me down.

Made every choice more deliberate. Made joy feel sharper.

Grief too.

But that night by the river — that moment — it reminded me: even in a year like this, the land’s still got surprises.

And sometimes, when you sit still long enough, she’ll show you one.