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(Prompt photo by Christian Fregnan on Unsplash.com)

"Where are we spending the night?" Ethan asked, 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 parking lot 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.

By daybreak, the rain had slowed from a downpour rivalling Southeast Asian monsoons to regular drizzle. A short walk from the parking lot, rivers had sprung up overnight, overtaking parts of the road. Itching to leave, we ventured back to the path to retrieve our tent, only to find a rushing river to cross in place of last night's path. Ethan tried to get through it, but water came up past his knees. We turned back to play the waiting game. Water receded eventually, didn't it?

For attempt two, we wore swimwear under rain jackets, charging through the forest with enough enthusiasm to startle the only other people camping in the park, who carried their gear up the path. Maybe the scary backpacker moniker fit us just right. They confirmed that they'd seen our tent upright at the campsite, not floating kilometres away in a field as we'd expected.

In our initial panicked attempt, we'd failed to note that the overrun stream was actually still quite crossable. Ankle-deep water disguised the bridge we couldn't find in dimmer light.

"The bridge is out!" Ethan said, a little late, in his best Schwarzenegger voice.

I shook my head but a smile crossed my lips. Our tent was safe and things weren't as bad as they seemed.

The river at the bottom had swelled substantially, taking down large trees, which got tangled in the nooks of the shore that we'd explored last night but were now impassable. Each minute we watched, the water crept further up the path. Best get that tent!

Back at the parking lot with our dripping tent and other gear, the other campers, who we learned were teens from Hobart, informed us that a tree was blocking the only road back to town. Wanting to see it for ourselves, we drove through a few of the shallow rivers and past a home or two until we reached a large fallen tree. It wouldn't budge despite pushing it with all our might and nudging it with the Outback Beast once before deciding it wasn't worth the potential damage.

We had some food and water, so we could comfortably survive two to four days. Although when we went to drink our water, it tasted like paint thinner. Our reward for refilling our water jerry can at a gas station. Thankfully, this was a flood, not a drought, so we filled up some empty juice bottles up with stream water, picking out a leaf and branch or two, and popped in some purification tablets.

The teens were busy calling their parents, parks, police and anyone who could help. Their sources conveyed no hope for today. Even if we moved the tree a deep river flowed over another section of road. We spent the day playing cards and killing time while rain pitter-pattered on the car.

I thought I heard something hum under the hood of the Beast. "What's that sound?" I asked.

"Nothing, they're just playing music." Ethan glanced at the teens' car.

"You sure? It sounds like it's coming from us."

"Keys aren't in the ignition. Can't be our car."

By evening, we and the three teens set our tents up in the parking lot and crossed our fingers for drier weather. Ethan went to lock the car, only to discover our car battery was completely dead. The engine wouldn't turn over at all. No interior lights. We figured the fan had been running on and off all day. Not only was more rain coming, but our home on wheels was useless for an escape.

The teens had a brand new car with jumper leads and a computer set-up that they weren't sure would remain undamaged if they gave us a boost. Ethan, a panel beater, was pretty sure it would be fine, but we didn't want to force them. When the teen called her parents about it, they recommended letting someone else jump us. The car owner apologized, but we weren't too bothered. We'd figure it out tomorrow.

To our good fortune, the night was relatively dry so we expected good news. Yesterday we'd gotten 200mm of rain, and the community uphill had gotten 400mm, explaining our flooding situation. We weren't sure how long it took that kind of precipitation to flow back to the ocean, but we thought most of it should have gone by now. Yet, the road river levels were still high.

Later in the day, the rumble of a vehicle's engine approached, filling our hearts with hope. Unfortunately, a nearby farmer was checking on his land. He confirmed the road river was at 0.4 metres and not passable with our vehicles, but he'd dragged the tree off the road. He tried to boost our car for a while, but the Beast refused to come to life.

"You're lucky," he said to all of us.

We looked at him with furrowed brows, not sure how being stranded and having a dead car factored into that luck, but we had food and water. Worst come to worst, we could take a full-day walk into town and sleep in a hotel despite our shrinking wallets' protests.

A few hours later, another truck engine broke through the tranquil wilderness and our companions' country music. This farmer had a diesel engine with two batteries, as good as it would get for a jump. He gave us a boost while showing us photos of a flooded-out highway and other nearby areas that were hit hard.

After a longer charge, the Beast finally turned over and roared back to life. We were so relieved yet afraid it would happen again that we ran the car for nearly two hours straight, going for short drives to the underwater 'bridge' and back a few times. The water level dropped to 0.3 metres which seemed too high to cross for a sedan without a snorkel.

During one of our drives to keep the battery alive, we passed a cop who told us he was taking the others out tonight as more rain was coming. He encouraged us to join if we didn't want to be stranded again.

We drove back and debated whether we wanted to risk a few more nights up here without help or chance that our Beast might make it through 0.3 metres of water. If she choked, our nomadic life was over. With only a month and a half left until we flew to our next destination, New Zealand, there was no sense in buying another car.

We gambled on the aquatic route, following the cop to the farmer's home where the teens parked their new car to be picked up in better weather. My chest tightened. What were we doing to our poor Beast? The cop had a high truck, the teens were playing it safe with a ride and we weren't.

At the river, I rubbed the Beast on the dashboard, got out and walked the entire route barefoot--muddy water reaching my shins and flowing through my toes--as if my actions would ensure success for the vehicle who'd been through so much with us. I gave Ethan a nervous nod and climbed in the passenger seat.

"Don't stop no matter what you do," the cop instructed. "Follow right behind me."

Ethan turned on the air-conditioning so we wouldn't fog up. After sharing an uncertain look and confirming we both wanted to risk our car, we followed the truck through the long river on a couple of raised tracks hidden beneath the waves. The water was high for our engine, but after holding our breath, we were on dryer land again. The Beast kept running.

"She did it," we whispered.

The cop truck sped off, not bothering to see if we'd made it.

"Wanna stay at Friendly Beaches tonight?" Ethan asked.

I laughed. "Sounds perfect."