Stranded

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"Where are we spending the night?" Ethan asks, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel.

"We've already been to Friendly Beaches," I said, scrolling through the camping app that had become our lifeline, "and they had that adorable beach wombat. But the odds of seeing one again are slim. We haven't visited Douglas Aspley, and we could hike in the morning."

"If the water level is low."

"Yeah, but half of Tassie has been on fire since we got here. I'm pretty sure that river will be fine, and we can both swim, right," I added with a grin.

Ethan chuckled. "You and your curiosity. It's supposed to rain tonight, and it rained today."

"Good, maybe it'll put out some of the fires."

Ethan shook his head, smiled and pulled our green, '97 Honda Accord out of the visitor center parking lot where we'd been using their wifi to catch up with the rest of the world. After seven months of living out of a car, we had our tricks.

We'd nicknamed our Accord the Outback Beast since she handled unpaved roads like a champ despite being a mid-sized sedan that we'd picked up for $900 in Perth from an Irish couple who'd moved to Australia decades ago on working holiday visas. 

The Beast roared as we tackled the hills and dips on the way to Douglas Aspley. After a few good bumps earlier in the trip, the 18-year-old muffler tips had flown off, making sure that everyone nearby knew we were coming. We figured it would scare off the wildlife near dawn and dusk and just crossed our fingers we wouldn't get pulled over.

During the drive, we passed some road flooding indicators but thought nothing of them. Soon we arrived at the parking lot to our walk-in campsite and took a brief hike through the dry eucalyptus forest, crossing over a few running streams. The main river flowed high enough to dash our hopes of a walk tomorrow.

"Maybe it'll look better in the morning," I said.

We lugged our camping gear down to the sites near a farmer's field at the edge of the forested park. We found a half decent spot, which seemed like it would allow for some drainage if the forecasted rain arrived.

After our usual routine of cooking supper on the trunk of our car, we debated bringing our valuables into the tent. Ethan was adamant about bringing his, though that only included a passport holder and a dated iPod. I debated the risks of leaving my laptop, camera bag and tablet in our car or bringing it into a tent at least an eight-minute walk from the car during a potential rainstorm. I grabbed my things and a tarp, thinking back to a folk festival where Ethan, a few friends, and I had avoided puddles beneath a tarp train in a downpour.

At three in the morning, thunder rumbled and encircled us, booming from all sides and shaking the ground. Rain pelted the sides of the tent despite some tree cover. Both Ethan and I eyed each other in our sleeping bags. Just as the thunder drifted away and relief set in, another resounding batch attacked.

We weren't strangers to camping in poor weather, and we knew that our tent was reasonably water and windproof, but as I put my hand down on the tarp floor, a stream of water sloshed beneath it. A quick tactile inspection revealed more streams.

"Want to sleep in the car?" Ethan asked.

"Come back for the tent in the morning?"

He nodded, and we packed what we didn't want to carry onto the foam mats to stay dry. I threw on my backpack of valuables, and we grabbed the tarp, tenting it over ourselves as we slipped on our soggy footwear.

My dying headlamp illuminated parts of the slick, muddy ground as we avoided tree roots and navigated the twists and turns. The streams we crossed grew larger and closer to the wooden footbridges. Arriving at the car partially soaked, but valuables intact, we hoped the storm would stop soon.

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