Francesca and I were experienced hitchhikers by the time we had our Kenny Rogers experience.
Most people do not equate the American country music singer with dope smoking youngsters, Rottweilers and stolen vehicles.
They do not recall his name and his music with a fear-filled shudder and a rueful shake of the head.
OK, so they do that.
But not the way I have done since a fateful hitchhiking experience which turned sour in the hills somewhere north of Christchurch.
Until that point, the journey had been going well.
It was the beginning of another university summer break and my fiancee and I were heading back to our families in the North Island.
We knew the tricks, enjoyed the adventure and normally made excellent time.
Doing the South Island one day and the North Island the next was normal.
We had left Dunedin that morning and by mid-afternoon were well north of Christchurch and still on-track to make the last ferry sailing out of Picton.
From there we would hopefully catch a late train from Wellington, sleep on a railway station bench at Paraparaumu and then thumb our way to south Auckland.
Standing roadside on the northern fringe of a forgotten North Canterbury settlement, we watched the cars whizz by, hoping each one would be our next ride.
Though we have had some flash rides, most willing drivers own more humble vehicles. So, we weren't surprised and only a little disappointed when a compact and tired-looking Austin Seven pulled over.
It was nice however to be welcomed by the beaming smiles of four teenagers only a couple of years younger than ourselves.
The next couple of minutes were spent squeezing our way into the vehicle.
Then, with packs on our knees and shoulder to shoulder with our hosts, we set forth.
Set forth is probably not the right phrase. It connotes speed and vantage gained.
Instead, we ambled along and watched holiday traffic busily pass us.
It soon became apparent that the three boys and a girl were taking a trip in more than one sense.
Thin, hand-rolled cigarettes with a distinctive smell were handed around. My response to the hospitable gesture was un-presidential.
While I didn't partake, I found it impossible not to inhale.
The only time the car did gain much speed was downhill, when the driver seemed either unwilling or unable to find the brake pedal.
He also seemed a little unclear as to which side of the road was his, giving us and oncoming traffic a number of panic-stricken moments as we headed down towards the Kaikoura coast.
They were going all the way to Blenheim and we were welcome to travel with them all the way. Francesca and I exchanged glances.
Thanks, we said, but we were actually quite hungry and would like to stop at Kaikoura.
Thanks all the same.
Ten minutes later we were pleased to be standing by the side of the road, sure that we would soon be in a safer vehicle making faster progress.
By now it was late-afternoon and we were still 159km short of Picton.
I mentioned that a year or two previously, my sister and I had been hitching out of Christchurch at night and still made it to Picton that day.
And, indeed, it was not long before a chocolate and beige Triumph 2000 pulled up. The boot was released and we put in our packs.
I hopped in the front seat and Francesca jumped in the back.
That was when we noticed the Rottweiler.
As a university-holiday power meter reader I had once been stalked through south Auckland state housing by an un-collared Rottweiler.
Secretly, I was a little relieved that the large, dark, slobber-jowled beast was in the back with Francesca.
Relieved, until I tried to engage the grizzled, 40-something driver in conversation.
Some things you are better off not knowing - like that the dog did not belong to the driver, nor the car, which he had borrowed from his boss.
Just as disconcerting was the fact that he appeared to always be on the edge of exploding with anger.
He was reluctant to say how far he could take us and as dusk fell mentioned the need for a detour.
I think that was when I started praying.
Our driver slowed and edged up an overgrown driveway. Outside, an Alsatian began to bark.
Inside, the Rottweiler stood on the back seat and went nuts.
The driver told me to open the gate, which meant edging past the chained Alsatian, and we pulled up to a darkened house.
Out he got, trotted over to an outside toilet, scooped up a lunchbox-sized parcel and came back to the car.
Continuing north along the coastal state highway in the dark and unable to see, let alone talk to, Francesca, I wondered how it would all end.
Our driver had something else in mind. There was a crayfish stall up the road, he said.
He wanted us to go to the house behind it and ask a woman to come out and see him. Only if we were allowed to end our ride there, I replied.
OK, but don't tell the mother at the house who it is.
After a few minutes he drove off. I don't even remember whether the woman was with him.
We were just thankful to have escaped intact.
But, what now? We were probably only 50km closer to our destination, standing in the sort of blackness you only get in the middle of nowhere.
Knocking on the house door once more, I asked if they could turn on the lights in front of their kiosk.
Despite the stall being on the wrong side of the road we had no alternative but to stand under its lights and pray that some kind motorist would understand why our thumbs were pointing the wrong way.
About 20 minutes and only half a dozen cars later, a young couple took the risk and offered us a lift.
They were going to Picton and were happy for us to quietly collapse in the back seat.
As I drifted off to sleep the lesson from our day's adventure seemed crystal clear.
I'm not much of a country music fan, but Mr Rogers The Gambler summed it up perfectly: "You gotta know when to walk away, know when to run "
Next time, we were going to catch a plane.
