Back in 2018 we bought a 20 foot caravan for our big adventure, wherever that may take us. Our temporary base was in Murphy’s Creek, SEQ, while we set ourselves up and kitted out the van and ute.

One grey night it happened. Some filthy scumbag stole my tool box that contained everything we needed from emergency mechanical repairs to knife sharpening. I was so enraged that I invented descriptors powerful enough to go where standard obscenities ran out of puff. My faith in human nature was dented, only to be totally crushed when I discovered later that another small but essential item had also been thieved.

The big day arrived and complete with improvised tools, we bade farewell to our generous hosts, traversed the now dry creek bed and ascended the precipitous gravel track toward the open highway.

Upon reaching level ground we were relieved to have passed successfully under the “deep” side of the bridge where the bitumen began. The euphoria was short-lived. A blood-curdling crunch followed by a whiplashing lurch brought us to a sudden halt. In the mirror I could see that the caravan had parted company with the ute, tenuously clinging by the safety chains. Instinctively I dragged our delinquent home a few more metres to the left, to clear the road for other traffic.

I couldn’t believe I hadn’t attached the yoke securely to the tow ball, and when I checked the damage, I knew exactly what had happened. That same dirt bag who nicked my knickknacks couldn’t resist the opportunity to score a towbar while on a roll. After removing the hitch pin, they couldn’t remove the towbar because of a tiny bolt that I had adjusted tight enough to stop the drawbar rattling in its housing. Happy with the hitch pin as a trophy, they abandoned the heist, which they could have completed if they had the intelligence to look in their newly acquired tool box.

More obscenities and cursing ensued until I realized the fortuitousness of tightening that tiny bolt that held onto the van with all its might before letting go on level sound footing. The vision of hurtling backwards down a steep winding track and landing, not necessarily wheels down in Murphy’s creek, was horrifying.

A scratchy mobile phone service hung in just long enough to call RACQ for assistance. While waiting for our rescuer to arrive we were pleasantly surprised when every car that passed stopped to check on our welfare, with offers of a ride to drinking water and food.

Mr RACQ arrived and sympathised with us but not surprisingly didn’t have a hitchpin in his box of goodies nor a trolley jack, the only tool suitable for lifting the van (and still attached towbar) back onto the ute. Where to now?

Sometimes the truth is weirder than fiction.

Out of the scrub appeared a beat up old Toyota 4WD from which emerged an equally weathered gentleman of the bush. Sizing up the situation he said, “Hmm. Someone pinched your hitch pin.” He disappeared behind his ute and reappeared a moment later with, “Here, take mine.”

Protesting was pointless, old mate even refused our offer of cold beer, just waving as he re-entered the scrub on his mysterious journey.

Still scratching our heads, a slightly better dressed fellow in a slightly cleaner vehicle, stopped and examined the scene. “Looks like you need a trolley jack.” Before I could say something funny like, “I don’t suppose you have one in your ute?” he reached into the tray and produced, you guessed it, a bloody trolley jack!

Minutes later we were back in one piece, travelling safely in a sort of southerly direction.

Conversation was awkward for a while as we digested the afternoon’s events. Consensus was reached that you don’t have to be beautiful to shine beautifully.

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