It was 1985. No one had heard of Ivan Milat or the horrors of Belanglo state forest, so hitchhiking was still a thing. I lived in Adelaide and wanted to go to my brother-in-law’s 40th birthday party in Canberra. Young, foolhardy and totally broke, I decided to hitch the 1,300km there.
I packed a bag and set out around the corner from my house. I’d been on my feet for all of three minutes when a beautifully restored American hot rod pulled up in front of me. Behind the wheel was a friend I hadn’t seen since primary school. He invited me to get in then gave me a lift all the way up to the outskirts of the city, where the major highway to Sydney begins. It was my first of many lucky breaks on this trip.
